


Allargando

by Slaycinder



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (with kerosene), AU, Amateur Atem, Atem x Seto, Barely SFW Tango, Begging, Bench Dancing, Blowjobs, Bottom Seto, Bukkake, Bull-riding, CHESS IS SEXY OKAY, Canon-Adjacent Tragic Backstories, Car Sex, Childhood Abuse, College-Age, Complete, Consent is Sexy kids, Exhibitionism, First Second Third and Home Base, Hurt/Comfort, Intentional Insemination, Isono aka Dad #3, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nothing goes over Seto's head his reflexes are too fast, Obligatory Elegant Ball trope, Pianist Seto, Piano, Post-Gozaburo, Power-bottom Atem, Prideshipping, Public Sex, Rimming, Scars, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Sorta Sexually-Experienced Atem, Submissive-top Seto, Sun and Moon God Imagery, Switch Atem, Teenage Mokuba, Trembling Gay Flower Petal Virgin Seto, Very Mild Breeding Kink, Voyeurism, accidental insemination, mall date, mlm, music porn, orphan bonding, pre-written, tea time, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 73,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slaycinder/pseuds/Slaycinder
Summary: Is love supposed to be made up of arguments over piano technique? Of cheap mall dates? Of hideous scars and sex toys? He knows his love for Mokuba inside and out, but this is different. This is...romantic. This is courtship.Seto Kaiba has no idea what he's doing.[COMPLETE]
Relationships: Atem/Kaiba Seto, Kaiba Seto & Yami Yuugi
Comments: 167
Kudos: 113





	1. Da Capo - From the Beginning...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTransversalArtisan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTransversalArtisan/gifts).



> For Nikki, my muse and my heart, who inspired me not only to write this story, but to continue writing it to completion, a task which took almost two years. Thank you for all your support, darling. It means the world to me.

-

1

Da Capo

_From the Beginning…_

-

Oh, it feels good to sit at the keys again.

In a small, windowless room, surrounded by the soft, half-dusty scent of sheet music sheaves, of book bags and bare eggshell walls. The hard weave of gravel-gray carpet under narrow boots. A chair and a trash can.

A digital piano. Big and beautiful with a full black cabinet and a synthesizer console. Eighty-eight pearly teeth bared beneath a solid fallboard. Pedals waiting to be pressed.

Atem slides along the bench and lifts the lid with itching fingertips. A private smile, an airy flutter in his heart.

“You can’t stay past six without a building pass,” Anzu says lightly behind him. She stands at his shoulder, hands tucked inside her jacket. “But that still gives you a couple hours, at least.”

“It’s perfect, Anzu. Thank you.”

“Do you know how to operate one of these?”

He finds the power switch easily enough, a screen like green ticker tape coming to life across the console, greeting him, then spelling out instruments and time signatures.

“I think I can figure it out,” he says.

Headphones hang from a hook at his knee, long cable drooping past the bench.

“Do you have a jump drive to record on?”

Already Atem’s pressing buttons, watching the settings switch—orchestra, electric, harpsichord, jazz. Metronome on, metronome off. Record, loop, change the key.

“No need. I just want to play.”

Anzu shifts behind him. He might even hear her laugh, softly, the way one laughs at an astounded child. An unwritten lyric, smooth and quiet, simple, kind. She pats his arm.

“Then I’ll leave you to it! See you at dinner.”

Then it’s just him and the keys.

Return to acoustic piano. Classic. Original. Untouched sound.

Metronome off.

He unhooks the studio headphones, fits them over his ears. Arranges his fingers in chords of C Major. Familiar. Easy.

Presses the white keys. Each note hits perfectly. The weight feels real.

The sound seems off.

Shy. Compressed. Sounding from a distant, muzzled shore.

He ups the volume with one hand, re-strikes C Major with the other. Better. Still off. Perhaps it’s just how digital pianos are.

Up the volume another hair. Good enough.

What to play?

He doesn’t know many chords by name, but he knows them all by sound, by feel. He chases C Major up the scale then shifts, curls his fingers a different way, pulls out a sharp note and folds it back into the harmony.

He lets the music come to him. Tracking no particular piece, at first, just learning and relearning, stretching, flexing, feeling the rhythm evening out inside him.

Suddenly it’s a tune he knows. Slow and weeping like a dirge. Notes heavy as a heartbeat.

His feet find the pedals and tease them each in turn, straining and sustaining the voice of each note. The music rises and turns rapid, a low-pitched thrumming, passionate keystrokes south of rabid that leave his memorized music in the dust.

He sees it as a swelling storm. High notes flash like lightning threads, thin and vicious through deep, sonorous clouds. No rain, not yet. Just buzzing air and pre-thunder heat. Gales of _glissando_ wind howling up the staff.

Another familiar melody emerges, flushes like blood beneath the skin. The rain begins to fall. Fat, liquid sound dripping from a minor scale, melting, filling the cracks between bars.

Something he heard in a movie, once.

Atem pries the score open like bread, steam rising, aroma rich and warm. He fills its softness with hard, determined trills.

This piece, this melodious metastasis of sound, will never be captured in ink, never domesticated on a page. It will never be repeated, not even by Atem; but here, in this temporary tryst, he names it _Road of Battle._ Every forceful, flying note has its answer, its counterpart, its rival rejoinder, like the clever clashes of masterful blades.

He doesn’t notice another presence in the room until it’s over, until he flicks the last key, light as a feather drifting into a low and final note, and motion tickles his eye.

A man standing in the open door.

Blue eyes like ice picks, instruments surgical and sleek, steel stealing under the skin. Atem suppresses the chills they leave, clamps them down hard, feels naked in the silence, the scrutiny, but keeps his face as straight as a lightning rod, sitting up on the bench. He curls his hands on his thighs and waits.

“Who are you?”

Lightning strikes the rod, a flash of panic. Was it past six already? 

Impossible.

The man is young. Another student, perhaps? Dressed to the nines—no, the tens. All in white and silvered seams. A steel-blue tie with an impeccable knot, and hair like polished tone wood.

Atem rests the headphones around his neck, his eyes caught on those of the stranger, melted and soldered to a metallic gaze. He feels warm. Glimpses a clock above the door—it’s barely past five.

“I was told the lab closed at six.”

A quick shake of the head, and then the stranger is approaching him, a halo of incandescent light sliding through his hair.

“I don’t care about that,” he says flatly, looming over Atem’s bench and making him feel unacceptably small. “What were you playing just now?”

Atem is still tripping over an answer when the stranger assesses the piano and pauses. His expression stays blank and melamine-smooth, but he subtly tilts his head, betraying a flicker of confusion.

“No sheet music…. Were you playing from memory?”

“Not exactly,” Atem finally says. “It just sort of…came to me.”

The stranger eyes the console with no particular emotion, not even a tilt of the head. His eyes flick up to Atem like a static shock.

Atem tightens his fists on his knees. He can’t remember the last time he was well and truly flustered—wonders if it was ever as bad as this. Tossed off balance by a striking glare and held there by some stranger’s interrogation.

“I made it up,” he elaborates. “Just now.”

“Well, that explains the sloppy composition.”

On his way to being offended, Atem realizes something startling. The headphones feel leaden around his neck when he screws up his brow and asks, “How would you know? No one else could hear it.”

“Is that what you think?”

Atem startles for a moment when the stranger bends down close, too close; close enough for Atem to glimpse the nape of his neck and breathe his scent—dry cleaning and coffee beans, with a shadow of some cold, pale aerosol. Compressed air, perhaps, like the kind used for cleaning out keyboards.

The stranger straightens up with an audio jack pinched between his fingers and a brassy smile behind his eyes, and the blood is sucked right out of Atem’s face at the implication.

“I could hear you from the other end of the hall.”

“Oh. I….” Atem snatches the jack from the man’s fingers and ducks under the piano to find its port, hoping to conceal the heat flushing from his neck to his ears.

…Only to notice with a jolt how close it brings him to this…not-unattractive stranger’s lower half.

The blood slams back into Atem’s face and makes his skin itch like sunburn. He plugs the jack in with an unsteady hand and tries to forget any details he might have noticed—like the fact that this man’s inseam is _very_ well-fitted.

“I’m sorry for the disruption,” he says curtly, pulling off the headphones and hanging them up. He lowers the fallboard over the keys and tries to rise from the bench; but the stranger is still standing over him, blocking him in. 

Atem glares at the stranger’s shoes. “…Excuse me.”

“Do you play professionally?”

Atem looks up at this, cocking an eyebrow, reclaiming his composure. The stranger’s face is mostly neutral, though something is sitting precariously in his eyes, some tell, threatening to expose his thoughts.

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

There, in the way his brow flinches upward—a quick motion, though Atem’s eyes are quicker. He catches it like a fly in his fist, and at once he sees that the stranger is just as unbalanced as he is. The discovery gives Atem a fresh breath of confidence. He rises to his feet. The stranger refuses to move. They end up chest-to-chest (more or less—the man stands a full head taller) and Atem finds himself hooked on those abyssal blue eyes again.

“Is that a proposal, Mister…?”

The man’s lips haven’t even parted to answer when another stranger bumbles through the door—short and fat and utterly unremarkable.

“Mr. Kaiba! Is everything all right? You took off in the middle of our meeting…”

“It’s fine,” ‘Mr. Kaiba’ snaps, eyes never leaving Atem’s. “I was just investigating something.”

“O-Oh.” The fat man frets and tugs at his uneven tie. “Did you, uh, still want to see the concert hall, or—”

“I’ve seen it.” Blue eyes flit briefly over the interruption. “It’ll do. Consider it rented. Now leave. I’ll see myself out.”

The fat man is still stammering when Mr. Kaiba sweeps over and slams the door in his face. He turns back to Atem, hands in his pockets, his suit jacket flaring tastefully. 

“‘Kaiba,’ huh?” Atem crosses his arms at the whole scene. 

“That’s right.” The stranger offers a rigid hand. “ _Seto_ Kaiba.”

The man’s imperious tone makes Atem smirk. He accepts the handshake, both of their grips knuckle-cracking tight, and tilts his head. “Never heard of you.”

He has. Of course he has; but the way Kaiba’s lips twitch is just too satisfying. The man has a monopoly on half the city and a million better things to do, and yet he’s here, having his ego prodded by a stranger and biting back his irritation at the fact. He tugs minutely at one of his cuffs and manages a slick smile. 

“I find it impressive that you learned to play piano, living under a rock your whole life.”

Atem returns his smile—down to its serrated sweetness. “Are you always this charming, Mr. Kaiba?”

They’re nearly chest-to-chest again, and the curve of Kaiba’s lips has become something appreciative. “Oh, you haven’t seen _charming,”_ he simpers, ducking in close and giving an impish wink. He then steps away and saunters to the door, and Atem takes the opportunity to exhale, a low fire fluttering beneath his skin. 

Kaiba pulls the door open and glances over his shoulder, startling Atem into straight posture and attentive eyes.

“Walk with me. I have a proposition for you.”


	2. Andante - At a Walking Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atem bites off more than he can chew; but in his defense, it’s a very sexy sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so excited to share this fic that I’ve decided to upload the first few chapters daily, as a treat. Beyond that, I’m considering updating twice a week (maybe Mondays and Wednesdays, something like that). Might even fuck around and upload the whole fic in daily chapters.
> 
> It would take ‘months’ to get through 27 weekly installments, and I ain’t that patient. 
> 
> So enjoy!

-

2

Andante

_ At a Walking Pace _

-

“...You want to play with me?”

Short gray carpet and low-lit walls, pocked with seating and bronzed sculptures. They seem to be heading leisurely for the exit--well, as “leisurely” as Kaiba’s draconian strut will allow. 

Atem adjusts the bag on his shoulder and continues to match the taller man’s stride, turning the whole situation over in his head.

“I know talent when I see it,” Kaiba admits easily, typing something into his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. “And as it happens, I’m working on a piece that can’t be played by one pianist--not even myself.”

He offers a business card and Atem takes it out of reflex. The crisp white stock has the highest albedo he’s ever seen, with a brushed-metal sheen and neat, navy-black lettering. Turning it over unveils a lustrous, holographic insignia. Typical.

Atem makes a grand show of slipping it dismissively into his back pocket, and Kaiba doesn’t miss the gesture. 

“So...you think  _ I  _ can play this piece with you?”

“I think that it’s worth a shot,” Kaiba says tersely, focusing on the hallway as it shrinks before them. “I wasn’t planning to include this piece in my next concert, for lack of an adequate partner; but I would be much more satisfied with the performance if I could.”

Atem drifts to one side, making room for an oncoming pair of students--Kaiba stays his course, nearly shoulder-checking one of them. When Atem falls back into step with him, he narrows his eyes at Kaiba’s profile.

“You want to play piano with me...in front of an  _ audience?” _

“In three weeks.”

Atem trips over the carpet and barely manages to catch himself. “ _ Excuse me?” _

Kaiba stops patiently and pins him with a cool gaze.

“Is that a problem?”

A derisive snort. “It’s a bit much to ask, don’t you think?”

There’s no inkling of apology in Kaiba’s expression. “Is it?”

Atem has no immediate response, and has to catch up to Kaiba when he continues down the hallway, stopping at an elevator and tapping the button. 

“There’s no doubting your raw ability,” he continues, “and I thought--wrongly, perhaps--that with some discipline, you could….”

The elevator  _ pings  _ open, but only Kaiba steps inside. Atem turns his nose up at the word  _ discipline  _ and waits.

“That I could  _ what?” _

Kaiba turns about-face and floors Atem with a startlingly genuine look. “...That you could help me do something extraordinary,” he says softly, lifting his chin and choosing a floor. His cheeks look a bit warm in the harsh light of the elevator. “And that...it might be enough to bring my piece to life.” 

Atem tilts his head and finds himself stepping into the elevator, entranced. Kaiba makes room for him, just enough for them to stand two abreast as the doors slip shut. The elevator descends smoothly, bound for the ground floor. Sharp, yellowed light. No music. Kaiba glances down from the corner of his eye. 

“Is that too ambitious?”

Atem can’t say for sure what strikes him most--the intrigue of the proposal, or this frankly dazzling man whose personality oscillates between austerity, boldness, and this brief, delicate thing he keeps glimpsing in fragments. Creativity, perhaps. A proclivity for music. An appreciation. A spirit much more passionate than the businesslike image he presents. He can’t say for sure what possesses him in this moment, what compels him to look up and say:

“Maybe not.” 

This draws Kaiba’s undivided attention, and Atem can’t believe he’s already forgotten how  _ blue  _ those eyes are. Vast and steady on the surface, but strong and turbulent beneath it, a storm-edged sky reflected in a boundless sea. 

The sight halts Atem’s breath for several seconds. It takes the  _ ding  _ of the elevator to snap him out of it, blinking and blushing. 

“I mean, it’s definitely unusual,” he backpedals. “But….” 

_ But that’s what makes you— _ it  _ so attractive. _

He finds himself leaning just a bit more into this man’s presence, drawn in by the character etched across that unfamiliar face. It feels new and enthralling, like hearing a song for the first time, in a genre he already loves.

...Yes. Unprecedented piano concerts aside, he definitely wants to see more of Seto Kaiba.

“You’ve piqued my interest,” he finally says, chest charged with some fresh, chaotic energy at the way Kaiba stares fearlessly back at him. Short of breath and a bit flushed beneath the skin, hyper-aware of the bag weighing dead on his shoulder. The elevator doors have given up and closed them in, while the yellow light hisses above their heads. 

Atem nods, more for his own sake than for Kaiba’s. “I’m in.”

“You are?”

There, for just a fraction of a  _ fraction  _ of a second, Kaiba appears young and surprised, and it’s gratifying--endearing, even. More-so than the tiny tell of his eyebrow flicking in confusion, or the annoyed angle of his mouth. It’s hard to tell in this hideous lighting, but there may even be a traitorous rush of color to those pale cheeks. 

But then the moment passes, and, predictably, Kaiba squares his shoulders and chokes out any and all emotion in his face. His eyes slip closed, thoughtful, giving Atem a reprieve from the havoc they wreak on his nerves. 

“Very well.” When his eyes reopen, they roam distractedly, not really taking in any of their surroundings. “I have a ballroom grand in my home--it should give you a good enough feel for the one onstage. We should schedule to meet as soon as possible. As for compensation--”

The phone in Kaiba’s pocket barely gets out a single buzz before he’s pressing it to his ear and grumbling into the open line. Meanwhile, Atem takes this moment to retrieve the business card from his pocket and a pen from his bag. He slashes out a quick note around the insignia on the back, and tucks the pen behind his ear just in time for Kaiba to hang up his call. 

“As I was saying--”

“Apologies,” Atem cuts him off with a wave of the hand, “but I really need to get going.” Before their chemistry gets the best of him in a small campus elevator. “We can hammer out the details over the phone, right?”

“I--”

“Excellent.” Atem reaches brazenly across Kaiba’s front to press a button on the panel, causing the elevator doors to slide open. “Here. So you can reach me.” 

He holds out Kaiba’s own business card, newly defaced in black ink, and Kaiba takes it--if for no other reason than sheer befuddlement. 

Satisfied, Atem nods politely and steps out of the elevator, only to be stopped by a  _ thunk  _ and an increasingly-familiar voice:

“ _ Wait.”  _

He turns around to see Kaiba’s hand stopping the doors mid-shut, eyes intense and laser-focused through the gap. He scans the note on the card as the doors begrudgingly draw open, then looks up. “What’s your name?”

The elevator doors are already trying to close again, and Atem makes the executive decision to take Kaiba by the wrist and pull him out into the lobby, where they stand--once again--in each other’s space. He tilts his head up and smiles, fingers shifting down into a much more benign version of their previous handshake.

“Atem.”

Kaiba returns his firm but amicable grip, sharp eyes raiding the planes of his face. 

“ _ Atem,”  _ he murmurs, and it pours down Atem’s spine like warm water. “Right. Well, I look forward to our meeting, Atem. Speaking of which, when—?”

Atem shakes his head and steps away, miming a cellphone with his hand. He gives the sharp-dressed man a wink and mouths two words:

_ Call me. _


	3. Capriccioso - Unpredictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seto Kaiba vs. His Life Choices: Round 1. FIGHT!

-

3

Capriccioso 

_ Unpredictable _

-

Seto doesn’t think anything of setting the card on his desk while he works—not until Mokuba snatches it up and makes a face like a dead fish.

“Are you going on a date, Seto _?” _

The stiff scratch of a ballpoint is the only slip-up Seto makes. He spares his brother a flavorless glance and tries to focus on the memorandum on his desk.

“No,” he says simply. “It’s the number of a potential business partner.”

“A potential business partner…” Mokuba flips the card around, pointedly displaying the hand-scrawled note, “who writes ‘call me’ with a little heart? On one of _ your  _ cards?”

Seto bristles and swipes the card from Mokuba’s hand. 

“He’s...eccentric.”

Mokuba crosses his arms while Seto stows the defiled card in his breast pocket. 

“ _ Eccentric?  _ You mean like Pegasus?”

“ _ No,”  _ Seto snipes, terrified by the comparison. If Atem turns out to be half as ridiculous and insufferable as Pegasus, Seto will  _ not  _ be responsible for his actions.

He might not even be responsible for them if Atem is as slick and intelligent as he appears—though Seto’s actions might be markedly different, then.

Seto feels a wash of heat creeping up his neck and strangles the life out of that thought. 

This entire arrangement is strictly professional, for the sake of his music. 

He needs to remember that.

No matter what enticing flames gutter behind those magmatic eyes.

“He’s a pianist.” Seto taps his pen to punctuate the confession, eyes lowered. “I’ve invited him to play a piece with me. If it works out, he might perform in the concert.”

Mokuba drops his arms. “ _ Really?” _

His incredulity rubs Seto the wrong way. He pointedly ignores Mokuba’s wide-eyed stare.

“It’s not a big deal,” Seto insists, shoving the memorandum aside. He swivels to tap absently at his computer’s touch-display. “I met him at the university today, and thought his playing showed promise.”

“What piece are you gonna play?” The grating surprise falls from Mokuba’s voice, smoothed over by genuine curiosity. “Some kind of duet?”

“Well, it’s not a duet.” Seto briefly rubs his temple and rises from his chair, agitated to the point of movement. That stupid card feels heavy in his breast pocket. “Not yet, anyway. I’ll have to make some revisions to it.”

The surprise is back, stretching Mokuba’s youthful eyes into big, storm-violet saucers. “Wait…. It’s one you wrote? You’re not talking about—?”

“The piece I’ve been working on for nearly three years? Yes.”

Mokuba lets out a long whistle. “This guy must be pretty mean at the piano,” he says, standing at Seto’s elbow as he gathers some things into his briefcase. “Especially if you’re willing to share the limelight with him.”

“Yes, well….” Seto turns away under the pretense of rifling through a drawer, when really it’s just a desperate attempt to hide the blush seeping into his face. “That remains to be seen.”

Mokuba blessedly loses interest and wanders across the office, lingering around the door impatiently. “Will I get to meet him?”

“Probably. We’re practicing at the house.”

“When?”

“Ugh. To be determined.” Seto pulls the card from his jacket and gestures with it. “He’s clearly not the professional type.”

Mokuba laughs. “Good luck with that! _ ” _

As usual, his brother’s laughter is infectious, and coaxes a small, honest smile from Seto. He nods, and Mokuba disappears into the hallway, ready to go home and rushing ahead.

Seto follows at a more patient pace, briefcase in hand and eyes glued to the playful note written brazenly across his business card. 

Atem is the biggest gamble he’s taken in a while; and even Seto himself is astounded at what he’s considering. Letting someone (particularly a  _ stranger) _ this close to one of his passion projects...risking catastrophe and disappointment, and possibly even the death of this piece he’s been slaving over for so long—this medium he’s steadily filled and trimmed with his very soul, his private hoard of precious emotions….

The thought is horrifying. Disgusting, even. That Seto Kaiba might need  _ help  _ realizing his vision is a humiliating concept.

But if this works…

Seto pinches the card in his fingers.

...If Atem proves to be the masterful and passionate partner he’s been searching for, then they’ll be able to unveil this music to the world at long last.

He pictures the orderly bulk of sheet music mounted on his piano at home, tries in vain to imagine it swelling and singing out properly in a concert hall, crafted not only by his hands, but by those of another. 

_ La Strada della Battaglia  _ may well be Seto Kaiba’s musical magnum opus. 

He can only hope that Atem is worthy of it.


	4. Acceso - Ignited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atem is too gay to function.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy stuff ahead! Toot toot!
> 
> Quick note about updates: My plan is to update one more daily chapter tomorrow (Friday 4/24). After that, I want to give myself more time to edit the chapters as they get longer (and trust me, they get a LOT longer), so expect a couple chapters a week, probably on Mondays & Wednesdays. Maybe Fridays. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who’s left comments! They brighten my day, and I have a lot of fun responding to them!
> 
> Enjoy!

-

4

Acceso

_ Ignited _

-

Katsuya spews chicken-powder ramen all over his lap when Atem shares the news.

Everyone around the table squawks in indignation, groaning and gagging at Katsuya’s mess.

“Jounouchi, oh my  _ god.”  _ Anzu throws a wad of napkins at him. 

“Whahdt?” Katsuya sloppily gathers noodles into his mouth and slurps them down, plucking a fine selection of vegetables off his jeans. “Isch shawkingh newsh!”

Hiroto smacks his shoulder. “Dude,  _ swallow.  _ Before I  _ yarf.” _

“Seriously.”

“Please.”

“Okah!  _ Okah!”  _ A hard, gulping swallow. Katsuya frowns around the table, offended. “Geez!”

“ _ Thank you.” _

Atem decides to set his fork down for the foreseeable future. “As I was  _ saying _ —Katsuya—I’m not even sure if it’s going to work out. It’s highly unusual.”

_ Highly unusual  _ is a humble way to describe the torrent of the day; the prospect of learning a piece on the fly and performing it  _ live;  _ the aftershocks of his first encounter with Seto Kaiba; the uncharacteristic forwardness of  _ handing his number out to a stranger in an elevator.  _

_ God,  _ what’s gotten into him? He even drew a  _ heart  _ on the damn card!

Atem straightens his fork on the table and wonders how immoral it would be to fantasize about a perfect stranger the next time he takes a shower. The memory of Kaiba winking and whispering about _charm_ gives Atem a fiery chill, and he definitely _won’t_ be sharing that part of the story with his friends.

“How much is he payin’ ya?”

Atem looks up, startled, accidentally clanging his fork against his plate. “What?”

“For the performance,” Anzu clarifies, tapping a crisp, clean nail against her water glass, “you  _ are  _ getting paid for this, right?”

“Oh.” The fork ends up in Atem’s hands again, one finger tapping absently over the tines. “Yes, he did mention compensation.”

Though Atem did cut him off mid-thought. For all he knew, Kaiba was about to say something like, “now, about compensation: there won’t be any, you tiny, stupid man.” 

...So far, Atem’s Fantasy-Kaiba is not only incredibly sexy, but also incredibly mean.

Anzu takes a sip of water and asks how much he’ll make. 

“We...haven’t discussed the details, yet.”

“Well lock it in, first thing!” Katsuya inhales a sheaf of noodles, spilling broth and gesturing rudely with his chopsticks. “And ask for a lot! That guy is richer than god!”

“Right….” 

Atem takes a reticent bite of his own dinner, and feels a hand patting his arm.

“It is really exciting, Atem,” Yugi says brightly. “I hope it works out!”

“And we’ll definitely come and see you perform,” Anzu adds. 

Beside her, Katsuya loses control of a noodle and proceeds to fish around in his shirt for it. The conversation veers away from Atem and his “highly unusual” day.

By the time he stands from the table, Katsuya and Hiroto are arguing about whether or not cereal can be classified as “soup.” Yugi and Anzu are tapping through their phones, and don’t seem to pay Atem any mind as he rinses his dishes in the sink.

He’s just toweling his hands when the phone in his back pocket goes off—buzzing and ringing with an eight-bit theme song. 

Atem’s cheeks flare up in an unbidden blush. 

It can’t be….

Already?

“You need to get that, Atem?” 

Yugi has an arm cast casually over the back of his chair. There’s a digital pet game open on his phone. He tilts his head as Atem pulls his own phone out and studies the screen. 

Unknown number.

“Is it him?” Yugi asks.

“One way to find out.”

A hesitant tap of his thumb, and Atem is listening to open air. “Hello?”

_ “Atem.” _

Kaiba’s voice is deep and a bit gravelled over the phone; but the sound is no less commanding of Atem’s attention. His thighs clench and his core tightens dangerously. He’s hyper-aware of the flush in his face and quietly retreats to his bedroom, managing an affirming nod at Yugi as he does.

The second he’s alone, Atem summons a brazen smile.

“Y’know, you’re supposed to wait a couple days before calling. Otherwise, you’ll seem  _ desperate~.” _

_ “I see I have the right number,” _ Kaiba sighs.  _ “And in case you’ve forgotten, the concert is in three weeks. Time is a bit of a factor.” _

“Right, right.” Atem takes a seat on his bed and regrets it instantly—recent events have made his fitted jeans uncomfortably tight. He winces and springs back to his feet. “So...how is this going to work?”

_ “Well, for starters,”  _ Kaiba proceeds, completely unaware of Atem’s traitorous physiology,  _ “we’re going to arrange for you to visit me at my estate, where I’ll assess the extent of your knowledge and skill.” _

Atem bites his cheek at the condescending tone.

“All right,” he says tightly. “And where is your  _ estate?” _

_ “I’ve sent you the address.” _

A quick glance at Atem’s screen reveals an unread text. The preview is of an obscure street number—the kind often attached to huge sprawls of property out in the middle of nowhere.

_ “The earliest I’m available is this Sunday,”  _ Kaiba says, his corporate-cool tone dousing the fire in Atem’s blood. 

_ “Well?” _

“Oh! Sunday works fine for me—,”

_ “Be here by one o’clock sharp.” _

Atem lowers himself into his desk chair, leaning an elbow on the heavily-nicked wood. “And how long will this meeting take?”

_ “Rehearsals will last several hours, if you’re fit for the job.”  _ A shuffle and soft creak—possibly Kaiba leaning back in a much nicer desk chair.  _ “Whether or not you’re fit will be seen on Sunday. It won’t take me long to decide.” _

Atem’s tongue toys along his upper lip as he murmurs, “Oh, I can assure you: I’m  _ plenty fit.” _

An indistinguishable noise drifts through the phone, followed by more shuffling.

Kaiba’s reply is curt.  _ “We’re done here. Sunday at one.” _

“It’s a date~.”

Atem expects Kaiba to hang up on him, but after several seconds of silence, his voice comes through again:

_ “It  _ absolutely  _ isn’t.” _

The line goes silent.

Atem sighs and dumps his phone on the desk. Despite the professional nature of the call, Kaiba’s voice is still simmering under his skin, and is somehow enough to leave him with a tickle in his core and a hitch in his pants. He stretches his legs and stares at the ceiling, debating whether to will the feeling away or just indulge it.

One hand seems determined to do the latter, and in seconds, Atem is rubbing himself casually through his jeans. 

He tries not to think about Seto Kaiba at first, but ultimately loses the battle and submerges himself in replays of that rich and pleasurable voice. It isn’t until he’s unzipping and maneuvering the band of his underwear that he permits himself to picture Kaiba’s face—the way his ocean eyes flash and calculate, the careful control of his pale lips, the shine of his hair. 

Cold air on heated, intimate skin. He relishes in the lewd exposure, scraping his memory raw for images of that tall, well-composed body: the way Kaiba walks and stands like a god among men, shoulders squared and strong, chin raised in preemptive defiance, the way he fills out a sharp tailored suit, the private bulge at the top of his inseam….

“ _ Hck!”  _

Atem gasps and rolls a palm along his bare arousal, legs spread and lax as he melts against the chair. He spares a wishful thought for the comfort of his bed (and the private toys stashed in a bag underneath it); but can’t bring himself to stop long enough to move. 

So instead he wraps earnest fingers around himself and pumps, breathing hard and shallow through his nose; slumps deeper in his chair and tips his head back, eyes closed and lids painted with every telling expression he’s seen on Seto Kaiba’s face. His smirks. His predatory stare. God, that  _ wink. _

_ You haven’t seen charming. _

Atem swallows a moan and jerks his hips. 

That alluring voice, softened by intrigue, bearing his name for the first time. 

_ Atem. _

The edge of sensation sweeps up to meet him, and just like that, he’s falling, body rigid and burning white, an empty cry on his lips as his vision smears and evidence spurts out over his hand.

A sudden rapping at the door sends his heart rocketing into his throat.

Katsuya’s voice rings through the wood, “It’s movie night, dude! You still on the phone?”

Atem is still twitching and spilling guiltily over his lap as he holds his breath and blurts out “Yes, give me a minute!”

_ Please don’t come in—please don’t come in—please don’t come in—please—! _

“Awight,” Katsuya calls back, giving up easily and thumping off down the hall.

Atem groans and goes limp in his chair, his high thoroughly crushed by adrenaline. Once that subsides, a wave of shame rolls in to take its place.

He only just met the man earlier  _ today.  _ Flirted and gave out his number like some horny mess in a bar.

And now he has plans to meet him again (which he wants), but in a  _ professional _ setting (which he does  _ not  _ want).

If this strange proposal takes off, he’ll be working very closely with Kaiba, on what is obviously a very important project.

“I’ve gotta get it together,” he mumbles, and repeats a habit he can’t remember forming: licking some of the spend from his fingers. Bitter and gluey and all too familiar. 

His thoughts wander in spite of himself.

He wonders what Kaiba tastes like.

  
  
  



	5. Fioritura - Flowery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atem visits Kaiba Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is staying safe and keeping busy! Thanks so much to everyone who’s been reading along. I have a couple concept drawings of the manor that I’d like to attach here, but it’ll have to be from my desktop and not my phone, so be sure to check back!

-

5

Fioritura

_ Flowery _

-

Well, it’s not the  _ middle  _ of nowhere.

Kaiba’s “estate,” as he so humbly called it, takes up half a dozen blocks just north of the city. High concrete walls crowned with ivy shield it from the street, and the main entrance is hard to miss: a wrought-iron gate with a guardpost standing firmly shut, flanked by stone pots as tall as Atem, bursting with long-stemmed flowers and draping leaves.

A couple hundred paces beyond the gate, Atem can see the vision of a flower-trimmed fountain and a circular drive, centered perfectly before a stately, symmetrical manor. Three stories tall, complete with towering columns and garden shrubs. Clean rows of windows shine harsh in the midday sun, as does the water pouring peacefully from the fountain. 

“Can I help you, sir?”

Atem whips around to address the guard at his post. 

“Oh! Yes.” He pulls out a broad grin and rests his arm on the high ledge of the guardpost. “Tell Mr. Kaiba his  _ date  _ is here~.”

The guard’s eyes flick up curiously, but he keys his earpiece regardless.

“Sir, there’s someone here to see you. Something about, ah….” The guard clears his throat. “A date?”

Atem wishes he could hear the response on the other end, because he’s sure he’d enjoy it. While he entertains himself with fantasies of Kaiba rolling his eyes and blushing, the guard mutters “Yes, sir” and pokes away at a screen.

The gate unlatches with a heavy  _ chunk  _ before splitting and swinging inward, bidding Atem forward like the arms of a faceless host.

“Straight past the fountain and to the front door, sir,” the guard directs, though his tone and suspicious gaze make it feel distinctly like a warning. 

Atem thanks the guard and continues forward, walking slowly, unhurried in his inspection of the milk-smooth pavement and meticulous square hedge, the crisp green lawns sprawling out for acres on either side, dotted with cedar trees.

It’s only half-past noon. 

His nerves about being late had him leaving the house early, and his nerves about being early had him taking an exaggerated route on the train. Then he worried about getting distracted or lost while trying to kill time, and he decided to just bite the bullet and show up.

Still, he isn’t expected until one. 

So he has time to dawdle.

With every subsequent step onto the property, his eyes are accosted by more and more beautiful, distracting things. The wide road and sharp hedge are flush with silver grass, shushing with every warm breeze. The fountain at the end of the walk is carved in smooth, rippling shapes. Water falls silent and clear from three blooming basins. At its feet is a froth of flowers: lacy white, blazing orange, and red pinioned with brown stamens. Baring its teeth at the top is the marble figure of a dragon.

Atem feels a relaxing summer motif evolving in his mind. Deep, earthy notes for the brown-eyed reds; flighty high notes for the clouds of white lace; full-bodied trills for every fiery blossom, thick with petals. As for the fountain….  _ Glissando  _ would do it no justice, Atem thinks. The fountain deserves something silky and fine, like the whisper of a harp, or perhaps the highest notes on the piano, strung fluidly together in  _ legato.  _

He sweeps his arm through a fountain of grass. Maybe not the highest notes. Something free and elegant, but with a bit more substance to it. A series of delicate chords played in flawless succession.

Atem rounds the fountain and lingers under the building’s facade, flanked by snaking boughs of black pine. Around the corner, he can just see a landscaping crew hefting equipment: shears and branch cutters. The whir of something heavier—a mower or a weed whacker—carries across the grounds.

He mounts the steps before the door and draws a hand across one of the columns. Thick as an oak tree, seemingly made of real white marble. 

Double doors, black with silver fixtures. No knocker. A small round button tucked to the side. Atem gives it a firm press and listens to the chime. 

His heart flutters and drops when one of the doors pulls open, and a stranger steps into view. A middle-aged man greets him, straight-shouldered and nicely dressed, with tinted glasses obscuring his eyes. 

“You must be Mr. Kaiba’s one o’clock,” he says civilly, and steps aside to reveal a foyer as long as a corridor. Atem is hesitant to tread on the immaculate marble flooring, gorgeous, whirling veins buried in polished stone, with a flawless white carpet running the length of the hall. Pillars in place of walls, opening up onto a sunny dining room on the right, and a pristine den on the left. Sleek leather furniture, spotless tables, and a surprising amount of green. Well-kept plants spring up from vases, placed tastefully in corners and nooks and shelves, accented with pale, pretty flowers.

A wide staircase pours open at the other end of the hall. 

The front door shuts.

“Your meeting will be held in the music room.” The man passes him in the foyer and gestures for Atem to follow. “This way, sir.”

Atem follows the man--who introduces himself as Isono, Mr. Kaiba’s personal assistant and head of the manor staff--through the den. Past a large television embedded in the wall, a coffee table of metal and glass, a healthy potted tree, then under an adjoining archway that leads, presumably, into the music room--if the ballroom grand piano is any indication. 

Atem stops in his tracks. 

_ It’s white.  _

Pearl-white and lacquered to an untouchable shine, its cover already propped open and practically glistening in the bath of warm light from tall windows across the room.

Without prompting, Atem drifts straight to the gorgeous instrument, tracking hints of gold that stream through its flawless visage, the matching music rack forged of fine, curling shapes, the padded leather bench, the gilded pedals.

Atem barely remembers to breathe. “Oh,  _ wow….” _

There’s a distinct note of amusement in Isono’s voice when he says, “Please, make yourself comfortable. Mr. Kaiba will be down shortly.”

An absent nod. Atem knows it’s probably rude to help himself to someone else’s piano, but he can’t resist sliding onto the bench.  _ Comfortable.  _ Indistinguishable from an office chair, or even a small couch.

He forgets the comfort of the bench the second his fingers brush along the keys--porcelain smooth and pale as the marble in the floor. He doesn’t dare depress a single one, just ghosts over them with his fingertips, wrapped in serene silence and luxurious air. 

The temptation pangs in his chest, dangerously strong. In an attempt to curtail it, Atem curls his hands in his lap and forces his eyes to rake over the entire room. A high ceiling carved into ribbons like an aerial sculpture, bright walls padded to control the sound. 

That summer motif is running through his ears again, and it makes his fingers twitch. Flowing and floral and blooming with life.

Another instrument is present—what appears to be a violin case latched and propped beside a music stand. Messy sheet music. A half-full water bottle on the floor.

He knows exactly which notes to start with.

The cloying urge gets the best of him—but only a bit. He decides to merely  _ pretend  _ to play. He hovers his fingers over select keys, just barely brushing their cool, pristine planes. He can flutter over them and simply imagine the sounds.

That’s enough.

Right?

His finger catches on the edge of a key, depresses it too slowly to strike the hammer--too softly to make a sound. Bites his lip and glances at the entryway. Isono has vanished. Kaiba has yet to appear. 

Pianos are meant to be played. 

...Surely Kaiba will forgive him for warming up a little. 

Atem repositions his hands. 

Takes a breath, straightens his back. 

And lets his fingertips drop like rain.


	6. Accompagnato - Accompanied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seto Kaiba vs His Life Choices: Round 2. FIGHT.

-

6

Accompagnato

_ Accompanied _

-

“ _ Date,”  _ Seto sneers, clapping his laptop shut. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Mokuba doesn’t even look up from his handheld. “Not your ‘business partner,’ that’s for sure.” He lays the console on his stomach and kicks his leg, draped like a coat over Seto’s reading chair. “Are you sure you didn’t misread the situation, Seto?”

Initially, it’s a ridiculous thought: that Seto Kaiba could be anything less than completely correct and in control. 

...But the more he thinks about it, the more he worries that Mokuba might actually have a point. 

What if Atem had ulterior motives when he said yes?

Or maybe they weren’t that “ulterior” and Seto had simply ignored Atem’s hints--what they might really mean.

He’s suddenly stricken with an image of himself, trying in vain to work with an inappropriate and handsy Atem. A near-perfect stranger with no interest in  _ La Strada della Battaglia  _ at all. Uncomfortable comments. Unwanted touches. A player in a game he didn’t agree to. Sitting in his home. Harassing him. Insulting his intelligence and passion.

What if Atem really just wants to get inside his--

“ _ Don’t be ridiculous,”  _ Seto snaps, standing up with small, agitated motions. He goes about pocketing his phone and gathering up his sheet music, giving the pristine folder an unneeded tap on his desk. “You haven’t met him, Mokuba. He may be a bit...flirtatious, but he’s not a degenerate.”

At least, Seto desperately hopes he’s not. 

His eyes linger on the edge of the folder, the crisp pages losing focus as his thoughts drift. “Anyone who makes music like  _ that  _ has to be a….”

He trails off, feels the word sitting warm and weighty in his chest, threatening to singe the nape of his neck, the tips of his ears. 

Mokuba sits up in the chair, game forgotten. 

“Has to be a what, Seto?”

Pursed lips and a tightened grip. 

“...A partner. A worthy one.”

No response, no sound to indicate Mokuba’s reaction. Seto feels the warmth finally spill into his cheeks and takes his leave, avoiding any direct looks at his brother. He pauses briefly in the doorway, straightens his shoulders and says, “But I guess we’ll see.”

“Seto….”

“I’ll be in the music room. Please keep the noise down.”

An uncertain “okay” follows him through the doorway, and then he’s alone in the hall, face hot with an embarrassment he can’t describe. 

Or maybe he can.

Ever since his first encounter with Atem the other day, he’s been unable to suppress a pervasive and terrifying emotion. 

Hope.

He feels like a child who never learned his lesson. 

Clinging to the glamor of ignorance, to blind and foolish faith. Vulnerable to a potentially devastating attack. 

Seto approaches the grand staircase and wonders if Atem has any concept of just how much Seto himself is risking in this venture--descends a single step and freezes. Pricks up his hearing, catches something reverberating in the near distance. Muffled by sturdy walls, but unmistakable in its flow, the way it alerts and lures his soul.

Music.

His piano, specifically. He’d know its sound anywhere.

Seto shoots down the staircase, heart fluttering like a small bird, sheet music strangely heavy in his hand. 

He tries to be offended by Atem’s audacity, helping himself to a custom-built grand piano worth more than his entire livelihood; but Seto’s irritation is dead on arrival when the music hits him properly. 

Warmth.

A breeze-smooth melody, trimmed with low notes like flowers lining a field. 

Not a field, so much as a meadow. Soft and summer-green, flush with fledgling wildflowers and tall stalks of silken grass. Corona colors rolling through the sky like the visage of a sun god, leaning over his domain, bathing it with his light. 

It reminds Seto, hauntingly, of the early movements in  _ Battaglia,  _ which bleed with leisure and comfort--a calm before the storm.

Beautiful.

Seto quickly rounds a corner off the front hall, heading as the crow flies for the music room. 

And there he is.

Atem.

Luring him once again with some of the most show-stopping music he’s ever heard. Not unlike a siren, his call rippling through Seto’s head, buzzing and lively in his nerves. 

He steps forward, feet soundless on the shining floor, eyes tethered to the man on his bench.

Tight, tenacious curls tied back and swaying over his neck. Dark skin poking out from a scoop-neck and half-sleeves. Fingers sure and meaningful on the keys. Even his feet command the pedals with seamless control.

The music is alive in his body. His back rocks and his shoulders roll. His head dips and swings to the peaks and valleys of the melody.

Seto comes closer, approaches the bench, quiet, careful not to draw Atem’s attention or disturb the dreamlike scene.

Eyes closed, lashes long. A flutter of volcanic violet that makes Seto inch back a bit, wary of being caught.

Atem closes his eyes again. Completely lost in his own motions.

He seems to favor the lower notes, never roaming higher than middle C.

Sunlight from tall windows. Dust motes whirling through bright beams. Light catches on Atem’s profile, glittering off the cuffs of his ears, the curve of his lips, the blade of his lashes. 

Giving his skin a deep and vernal glow. 

Then Seto hears it--or rather,  _ feels  _ it. 

Where Atem’s song was once merely reminiscent, it becomes, just for a moment,  _ identical  _ to Seto’s  _ Battaglia.  _

Just a quick riff of notes, trickling over Atem’s own rhythm, rainwater on summer leaves. A scrap of Seto’s composition, a scrap notated somewhere in the very file of sheet music under his arm.

It’s as if Atem can see the same scene he can, and can translate it fluently into the same notes.

Until now, Seto figured he was the only speaker of this language; the only player in this game.

...Perhaps not.

His fingers tingle and itch.

An idea strikes him. 

And he wonders….

Would Atem allow it?

Would Atem humor him?

There’s really only one way to know.

Seto lays the file silently on the floor, just behind the bench, then steps in close. Leans just beside Atem’s shoulder, extends his arms…

...and plays.

Pours a series of sweet high notes onto the keyboard, fits them perfectly between Atem’s.

And for a glorious second, they’re in-tune. Two artists seated at the same canvas, colors blossoming beneath four eager hands. 

Then Atem startles, jerks his hands back as if burned. Large eyes widen over flushed cheeks.

“Kaiba, I-I didn’t mean to--”

“Keep playing.”

A long pause, uncertainty captured in a beautiful face.

Seto looks down, feels heat beneath his skin, a chill between his bones.

Nervous.

“...Please.”

A response in the soft flick of strong brows, the tiniest hint of surprise. Atem’s lips mold into a small smile, one that just reaches his eyes.

He nods.

Fingers drawn magnetically to ivory. 

He scoots minutely to the side.

An invitation. 

Seto accepts.

Inhales a sharp breath and maneuvers himself onto the bench. A white-hot jolt thunders through him when their hips touch, thighs grazing, elbows bumping lightly as he positions his hands. 

Atem takes the lead.

Seto lets him.

He lets Atem set the pace and the tone, lets him erect the scaffolding of a motif and waits. Waits for the breathless pause that cues his entry. Then it’s a matter of keys and locks, of Atem’s teeth fitting into Seto’s every tumbler, precise and perfect, trickling together to unlock something new.

It rises from rainwater on colored leaves, evaporates into a soaring mist, kaleidoscopic with sunlight.

Atem’s fingers are quick, but move in simplistic patterns. Seto fleshes them out effortlessly with complex chords, hands splayed wide across the keys.

It’s indescribable.

He catches the curve of Atem’s smile and loses his concentration. 

The music falls apart between them, until Atem pounds his palms flat into the keyboard, killing the melody with a loud, horrific clash. 

And he’s laughing. Fully. Joyously. He turns to Seto with a cocksure smirk, bumping their knees together on the bench.

“So,” he says, “am I ‘fit for the job?’”

Seto blinks at him stupidly, briefly forgetting his own haughty words. 

“You….” He avoids Atem’s increasingly familiar grin--the shine of his eyes, the divot of a dimple tucked into his cheek. 

_ You’re incredible. _

He catches himself. Sits up pointedly on the bench (and inches away from Atem’s friendly leg). 

“You’re clearly self-taught, but I think you have a lot of potential.”

To his surprise, Atem’s smile not only remains, but melts into satisfaction. He props his hands on the bench and slouches comfortably. “Something tells me that’s high praise, coming from you.”

Seto decides it’s safest to ignore that comment. He slides off the bench, standing a safe distance from Atem and his disorienting aura. Worried that his face may still be a bit flushed, Seto moves to gather his sheet music off the floor and flips through it.

“So, are you still interested?”

Atem gets  _ that  _ look on his face—the one he made when he was giving out his number, the one Seto practically  _ felt  _ over their phone call.

The phone call.

_ Oh. _

Oh, god.

_ I should tell him,  _ Seto thinks in a panic.

_ I should really tell him. _

_...Shouldn’t I? _

Which would be worse? 

Blessed ignorance?

Or the knowledge that Seto had... _ heard  _ him that night?

  
  



	7. Sforzando - Strained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaiba reflects on the single most problematic phone call of his life.

7

Sforzando

_ Strained _

-

Seto Kaiba has never been one to put things off. He resolved to make that phone call at the end of the workday. Yet, every time he looked at Atem’s number, blood and heat would rush his cheeks, and he’d conveniently get distracted by a different task. He ultimately failed to call Atem from his office at all, and it wasn’t until he was holed up in his study, feeling relatively safe and in control, that he managed to dial the numbers written above a flirtatious heart.

There’d been a mild panic while the phone rang. Ridiculous, childish. 

_ “Hello?” _

A voice that struck him right between the legs.

_ “Atem.” _

His free hand fluttered anxiously over his knee as Atem made some comment about seeming  _ desperate.  _ He forced himself to breathe evenly and press forward, conducting business as usual, crossing and uncrossing his legs as that voice drizzled steadily through his ears. Self-conscious under a thin veneer. Rested his legs and tried to relax, leaning back in his chair, making the leather creak. 

“Rehearsals will last several hours, if you’re fit for the job. Whether or not you’re fit will be seen on Sunday. It won’t take me long to decide.”

In an attempt to diffuse his own thunder-stricken fascination with the man, Seto disregarded Atem’s skill.

Challenged his pride. 

Regretted it instantly.

_ “Oh, I can assure you: I’m plenty  _ fit.”

A gasp, dangerously close to a moan—Seto just barely managed to bury the sound in his fist. A guilty ache was blooming in his lap. His hand shot down to allay it, but the damage was done. 

He was hard.

From a mere  _ phone call.  _

Disgraceful.

“We’re done here,” he bit out. “Sunday at one.”

_ “It’s a date~.” _

Atem’s quip nearly knocked him out of his chair, then. He wrangled his legs, crossed them tensely and bit back a grunt at his displaced erection.

“It  _ absolutely  _ isn’t.”

He leaned away from the phone, breathing and palming his eyes. 

How was he going to survive this arrangement?

The conversation dropped off, and Seto should have hung up. 

Standing here, staring down one of Atem’s lascivious grins and knowing what he knows, remembering what he heard-- _ and did-- _ that night, Seto wishes he had just hung up. Maybe then he’d be spared the obscenity of this moment. 

Atem must have thought the call was over.

Why else would he move on into such an... _ intimate  _ activity? Surely he wasn’t  _ that  _ promiscuous?

Seto should have hung up.

There was some shuffling, a distant, tired sigh--nothing of interest.

At first.

Then came the slow, deliberate breathing, the small gasps. The sounds that Seto’s body recognized as pangs of pleasure, of lust.

Sounds his body kept reacting to.

This had been something explicitly private, an unseen peephole into the life of a near-perfect stranger, and somehow every shred of Seto’s decency escaped him.

He should have hung up, not muted his mic and pressed the phone flush against his ear, listening acutely to the clink of an unbuckled belt, the hiss of a pulled zipper, the strangled groan of relief. 

He must have entered some kind of delirium, then. Some haze. 

Some reality-adjacent dimension where he didn’t hesitate to poach pleasure from an unsuspecting man. Lost in a wild hypnosis, jerking his hips to a stream of stolen arousal. 

Seto Kaiba scarcely pleasured himself at all, much less to the tune of perverse eavesdropping, seated at the desk in his study where he meant to conduct proper business. Yet there he sat, legs sprawled and one hand scraping the arm of his chair, the other gripping his phone fiercely, keeping him connected to the victim of his voyeurism, the lifeline of his deadly sin. He chewed his lips and bucked uncomfortably, viciously fighting the urge to touch, to rub, to grind, to  _ stroke.  _

Listening was shameful enough. 

A sharp inhale, a truncated moan. 

He heard it when Atem came.

Muting his mic was the smartest move he’d made in living memory, because the responding whimper on his lips would have given him away. He couldn’t--still can’t--recall being so helplessly aroused in his life, so eager for sexual fulfillment. It was never something he desired, much less craved with a starved man’s anguish.

Door-knocks and shouting shattered the fever, and Seto nearly shattered his phone when he shut it off and shot it across the surface of his desk, effectively ending the call.

Then the nauseous guilt hit, and every shade of pleasure soured inside him. 

The same nausea seeps inside his gut now as Atem sits on his piano bench and smiles, completely unaware of Seto’s transgression.

“I’m very interested,” Atem affirms, sliding off the bench and up to Seto’s side. 

Seto reflexively turns a shoulder and nods, trying to breathe away the clammy flush in his face. 

He can’t possibly own up to the phone call. 

Atem would undoubtedly leave. 

And  _ Battaglia  _ would be stillborn once more. 

His gut twists miserably at the thought, and he pretends that performing  _ Battaglia  _ is the only thing he’d miss. 

“So~. Where do we start?”

Seto startles and looks directly at Atem for the first time in several minutes. 

He’s smiling, broad and genuine. Innocent, for once. No hint of a flirtatious or mischievous glint in his eye. 

“We’ll schedule a rehearsal,” Seto says, carefully moving past Atem and propping his music on the rack. He then moves to close the piano cover, but pauses when he catches a confused--even  _ distressed  _ look on Atem’s face.

“Oh, but...can’t we do it today?”

Seto swallows and looks away, looks down into the gilded guts of his piano, longing to hide beneath her hammers, to camouflage between her strings.

“Now who’s  _ desperate,  _ Atem?”

He mutters the words, not quite intending Atem to hear them. 

He doesn’t seem to. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Seto mindfully releases the cover’s support, bearing its weight with one arm, then two, easing it shut with the care of a parent, putting their child to bed.

He defaults to condescension. 

“I’m sorry your life is so boring that you have nothing else to do on a Sunday afternoon.”

Atem shakes his head as if he’s been splashed with water.

“I thought time was a  _ factor?” _

When he doesn’t respond, Atem cocks his head, challenging. 

“Did you really only set aside  _ twenty minutes  _ for this meeting? Isn’t this project important to you?”

Seto nips his cheek and nearly pinches his fingers off in the piano.

He manages through locked teeth, “ _ It is.” _

Atem marches right into his space, dares to lay his hand on the piano cover, alarmingly close to Seto’s. The air around him is warm with the scent of sandalwood. 

“Then why put it off? I’m up to the challenge.” He straightens his shoulders. “Are you?”

Seto watches Atem down his nose, heart threatening to punch a hole in his chest at Atem’s unrelenting stare. 

Unbidden, he pictures those floral eyes pressed shut in pleasure. 

Gasps and moans.

Lips rolling and parting. 

The same passion as his playing--stroking himself as he strokes each key, as if the instrument were crafted to his very touch. Beauty from oblivion. The creation of heaven and earth.

The hitch of orgasm in his breath. 

A long pause suspended between them, a breathless tension stretched across taut strings. 

Seto chokes back his inappropriate thoughts. 

His lip twitches in defeat. 

“...Fine.”


	8. Maestro - Master, Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals begin. Atem forgets a teeny tiny detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaiba’s piece has Italian titles—I’ve translated them from English as best I can, with a very rudimentary understanding of Italian. Some are translated more literally than others. If any stronger Italian-speakers have suggestions or questions, definitely let me know!

-

8

Maestro

_ Master, Teacher _

-

There was a moment, briefly, where Atem feared he’d fatally misjudged Seto Kaiba.

The tremulous passion that lured him, caught him like a snare--for a moment, he thought he might have imagined it. 

Because if this concert was even half as precious as Kaiba made it sound, wouldn’t he want to jump in as soon as possible?

He’s been having trouble meeting Kaiba’s eye since their impromptu duet. That fearless, head-first confidence from the other day is still there, but something eclipses it. 

Discomfort. 

Anxiety. 

Is it something Atem said? Did? Maybe he really should have left the piano alone. Day one, and he already seems to have crossed a line.

Atem worries in circles about these things as Kaiba leafs through a substantial file of sheet music. He leaves it spread neatly across a small table and brings a few pages to the piano with him.

Atem remains standing, working himself into a minor panic. 

Panic that this arrangement won’t be the whirlwind of intrigue he imagined, even hoped for. 

Panic that the man he is, quite honestly,  _ very  _ attracted to can barely stand to look at him. 

He wants to ask, but he’s certain their flimsy kindling of an acquaintanceship won’t survive prying questions. 

“We’ll start with the  _ Il Scontro delle Spade  _ motif. It’s a defining part of the piece.”

Atem rolls the foreign words in his head and parrots them back. “Il  _ Scontro di...Spade.”  _ He risks a step closer, convinced that Kaiba will recoil from his presence. “What does that mean?”

“ _ Clash of Swords,”  _ Kaiba supplies. He flicks his eyes at Atem and doesn’t seem to mind him. “ _ La Strada della Battaglia  _ is a tableau of battle, the contending of the gods.”

That beautiful, passionate thing flares in Kaiba’s voice again, and Atem has to catch his breath at the sound of it. 

“The duel of the century,” he continues, eyes slipping softly over the music, “fought between worthy opponents. Rivals across time and space.”

Atem blinks at the poetry of it, a bit flustered to hear such romantic things from such a rigid man. He then blushes and assures himself that he finds it  _ romantic  _ in the classical sense. 

“Do all of the sections have their own titles?”

“Only the most significant ones. Each major movement has a name, yes.”

Atem hedges closer still, and Kaiba doesn’t seem particularly perturbed. His gaze gravitates curiously toward the open folder. “What are they?”

Kaiba actually smirks, and it’s painful how hard Atem’s heart skips.

“You’ll learn their names in good time. Today,  _ Scontro delle Spade  _ deserves your full attention.” He gestures to the bench. “I want you to be familiar with the whole piece--not just your parts. That way, if you lose your place during the concert, you can at least improvise something relevant.” 

Atem blanches half-way through sitting. Straightens back up and turns wide eyes to Kaiba. “Er…. Improvise?”

“To make something up on the spot--.”

“ _ I know what ‘improvise’ means.” _

“Then why did you ask?” There’s a potent note of amusement in Kaiba’s voice. Atem blushes down at the keys.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he mutters. 

“Yes,” Kaiba agrees. “Let’s.”

He then crosses his arms. “All right. Show me what you’ve got.”

It takes Atem a moment to process what Kaiba just asked of him. He raises his fingers to the keys on reflex, but goes ashy in the face when he looks at the sheet music.

Instructions written in another language. Ticks and lines sprayed in clean, albeit crowded and hectic arrangement. He recognizes the treble clef, and the bass on the staff beneath it; but his rudimentary knowledge of notation fails him in the face of Kaiba’s calamitous composition. His hackles raise at the time signature. He’s not even sure which octave to start in. 

His cheeks burn with panic and shame.

“Is there a problem?”

_ Damn it.  _

Atem stares at the foreign notation until his vision blurs.

How did he not think of this sooner?

_ How did he manage to forget? _

Of  _ course  _ there was sheet music! Why wouldn’t there be? How else would Kaiba expect him to learn it? To play it back, exact and correct?

The panic rolls his gut and rises as high as his throat.

_ It’s over. _

This whole arrangement is done for.

Stillborn.

Kaiba will laugh him off the property and they’ll never speak again.

Atem curls his fingers anxiously before resting them in his lap, gazing far beyond the piano in front of him, remiss that he’ll never get to tickle its ivories again.

“I um….” The words stick like gunk in his throat. “I can’t read music.”

Kaiba replies swiftly, “Sight reading won’t be necessary. I expect you to have this memorized, as any concert pianist would.”

Atem finds the self-destructive courage to look up at him.

“No,” he says, voice leaden and cheeks aflame. “I can’t read sheet music, period. Not even to practice.” 

He looks back down. Can’t bear to watch Kaiba’s face collapse in laughter. 

Mockery.

Maybe even rage.

Anger for wasting his time and his hopes. 

The silence that answers him is nothing less than excruciating. Atem is on the verge of trying to apologize when Kaiba moves away suddenly.

Terrified of him storming off, Atem snaps his head up.

Kaiba doesn’t leave--just paces furiously around the room, one hand tearing through his hair. 

Atem speaks through a bitten lip. “Kaiba--.”

“Why did you say yes?”

“I’m sorry--?”

A frustrated grunt that makes Atem wince. “Why did you agree to do this with me if you couldn’t  _ read music?”  _ Kaiba whips toward him. Looks more scared than angry. Atem doesn’t get a chance to ponder why. “How did you learn to play?”

Atem bucks his chin indignantly. “I’m ‘clearly self-taught,’ remember?” 

Kaiba ignores the jab. “You had to have attempted learning sheet music at some point.”

“I did; but it got frustrating, and I gave up on it.”

“You  _ gave up on it?” _

Atem rises to his feet, defensive. “It was a  _ hobby!  _ I didn’t think some  _ billionaire  _ would randomly  _ proposition  _ me for it!”

“ _ Multi-millionaire,”  _ Kaiba quips. “And don’t worry: I’m not  _ propositioning _ you for anything! Not if you can’t grasp the basics of music.”

“I  _ grasp music _ just fine, you ass! Stop talking down to me!” Atem’s fury abandons him and he looks away, bashful. “I just...don’t know the technical side of it.”

“Oh is that all?” Kaiba drops his arms in disbelief. “Good thing  _ technique  _ is  _ optional  _ in a professional setting!”

Atem breathes sharply through his nose, has to close his eyes to compose himself. When he opens them, he’s glaring again. “ _ Look--.” _

“I don’t get it!” Kaiba stares at him, unmistakably frazzled. “I mean--what did you think I was asking you to do?  _ Freestyle _ in the middle of my painstakingly-orchestrated concert?”

“No! I didn’t think….” 

It’s hard to concoct a defense, an excuse, with those heaven-blue eyes looking so open, even helpless before him. That small, childlike thing he witnessed in Kaiba’s countenance the other day is rearing again. Creativity. Appreciation. 

Passion.

But now it feels distinctly damaged. Chipped like the edge of a sculpture that survived the fall, but will never look quite the same again. More fragile than ever. 

It breaks Atem’s heart to witness.

“...I just didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

Seto Kaiba drops to the bench. Hangs his head and palms his face. Pinches between his eyes. 

He sighs.

“I just don’t understand.”

Atem takes another risk--despite how poorly his previous risks turned out--and sits beside him, slouching into Kaiba’s dimmed and depleted aura, unlikely partners in a failed venture. “What don’t you understand…?”

Kaiba shakes his head slowly, eyes lashed to the floor. “How you can play such  _ incredible  _ music, just...off the top of your head.” 

He startles Atem by glancing up, expression raw. “You don’t pull from  _ any  _ other works? You don’t even write it down? I’ve studied for nearly  _ two decades  _ and even I can’t….” He stops. Erases the thought. “How do you even  _ function  _ as a musician?”

“I pull from other music all the time,” Atem murmurs to the linoleum. “I listen to it, then try to play it myself. ...I usually get pretty close.” A shrug. “The more I concentrate, the closer I can match it.”

“...You play by ear.”

He says it so softly, and with such an odd note of reverence that it captures Atem’s attention. He sees blue eyes flitting fast, something sapient brewing behind them. An idea. Of what, he can’t guess.

A sudden energy lifts Kaiba from the bench. He spins around, leans over the piano, gaze like a crosshair, trained on the mark of the century. 

“How many times do you need to hear something before you can play it?”

Atem blinks, caught off-guard. “Uh...once or twice? Depends on how complicated it is.”

“And how much can you learn at a time? A few notes? A whole song?”

Atem just blinks again, confused and a bit dazzled. This Kaiba reminds him more of the one he shared a campus elevator with. The one he fantasized about when he--

“Again, it depends,” he scrambles, shoving that indecent incident from his mind. “I can teach myself a simple song in one go, but for something like a film score, I usually have to break it up into sections.”

“Listen carefully.”

Sensing his opportunity to salvage this disaster, Atem turns on the bench and watches Kaiba’s hands as he lays them over the keys, arm passing so close to Atem’s that he can feel the man’s warmth. Atem pricks his ears, and focuses intently on Kaiba’s fingering as he begins to play.

_ Il Scontro delle Spade. _

The banter of rivaling notes. Blades kissing and crossing in the form of a trickling melody, ruffling and rolling perilously downhill. Speeding up, meeting faster and faster. Breathless. Blood drawn. An answer for every swing and swipe. The motif ends with a heavy chord, the most brutal strike yet. Once, twice. Slide down the scale a whole step, then a half.

The music stops.

Atem exhales--possibly for the first time since Kaiba started playing. He glances up--blushes at the man’s unbreakable gaze on him.

Kaiba straightens up, nods toward the piano.

Atem takes a deep breath and nods in return. Finds Kaiba’s place and mimics his hands. Takes the plunge--flutters his fingers over the same keys. Makes it through a couple dozen notes before losing his way.

Kaiba wordlessly nudges his hands aside and plays the next string of notes for him. Atem repeats them perfectly, if a bit slowly.

“Good.”

The praise dribbles through Atem’s veins like syrup. He sits up a bit straighter. Remembers the next part because he particularly liked it. Plays it flawlessly.

Hesitates on the final chord. 

Attempts it before Kaiba can intervene. Not enough strength in his little finger--it slips onto the wrong key and sours the chord.

Atem swears.

“Dexterity exercises will help,” Kaiba says patiently. “For now, use your other hand. Like this.”

He demonstrates on a higher octave, borrowing his left thumb to complete the chord in his right.

Atem nods and copies him, finding it much easier with both hands.

“Can’t I just play it this way?”

Kaiba chuckles--actually  _ chuckles.  _ A soft, humming sound in his throat. Warm like the arm brushing Atem’s shoulder. 

“Because eventually, you’ll need that hand for  _ other things.” _

He smiles brazenly at the way Atem’s cheeks flare. A flash of teeth that makes Atem’s chest pang. 

Did Seto Kaiba just  _ flirt with him? _

Before Atem can stammer out a response, Kaiba stands up tall, arms crossed in what can only be described as victory.

“Congratulations, Atem. Looks like I’ll be  _ propositioning  _ you after all.”


	9. Alla Marcia - As a March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for a brief glimpse into Kaiba’s bleak childhood :D 
> 
> [[TW: Non-graphic mentions of corporal punishment and child abuse.]]

-

9

Alla Marcia 

_ As a March, in Strict Tempo _

-

Seto Kaiba has an inconveniently sharp memory. Especially when it comes to defining moments in his life. 

He considers his first piano lesson one such moment.

The man who adopted them expected great things. Great, perfect,  _ profitable  _ things. 

He mostly expected them from Seto, often referring to his brother as a “spare.”

...Seto couldn’t afford to fail. His success was Mokuba’s only protection.

Chess was impressive, but hardly exploitable. In addition to his education, Gozaburo required Seto to perfect a skill in the liberal arts, believing that a “well-rounded” man would rake in more prestige, make a better successor. 

Seto hated it. 

He showed no particular talent for art. 

Theater was a farce in Gozaburo’s mind, as was any kind of creative or poetric writing.

But music?

Music, he could promote.

Classical, high-society music, played to affluent fools under blazing spotlights. A concert pianist whose work was a  _ privilege _ to witness.

He began lessons early.

Early in his life, early in the day.

Small fingers popped and stretched. A back already broken into perfect posture. Feet that couldn’t reach the pedals. 

The threatening crack of a riding crop. 

_ “Again.” _

Be it music, manners, or mathematics, the price of Seto’s mistakes was always the same:

Swift, severe,

...and  _ corporal. _

The thought alone still makes him flinch, long after the man’s death, long after the scars of his wrath have healed.

He brushes the side of his neck, privately acknowledging the ghosts of welts hidden inside his collar. The tension makes his bones creak.

Atem doesn’t seem to notice. 

Perhaps he thinks it’s normal. 

Perhaps he’s just being polite.

Regardless, he appreciates the way Atem carries on with him, focusing on the music and not Seto’s unspooling nerves.

He sits in patient silence, eyes glued to Seto’s hands as he lays out the music. 

Rigid and accurate, back straight and legs perfectly angled. 

_ Il Scontro delle Spade.  _ The refrain that echoes the energy of all  _ Battaglia. _

And Atem plays it back  _ beautifully.  _

It makes Seto’s heart buzz like a hummingbird, caged in his chest, to hear, to  _ see  _ the music recited by someone other than himself. Someone whose presence is vastly different from his own.

Watching Atem is hypnotic, just as it was when he first arrived and helped himself to Seto’s piano--a warm-up that was, frankly,  _ breathtaking. _

He leans and sways, even as he fights his way over a difficult bridge of notes. Fearless and stubborn, repeating each section without prompting, even after he’s gotten it right. He closes his eyes and  _ feels it.  _ Pours some part of himself into it, makes it his own. 

He gives it  _ life. _

_ A ruler snapping against his lower back.  _

_“Enough,” the woman sniffs, face puckered and unpleasant. The fourth instructor_ _hired for his lessons. His father likes this one. She refuses to use a translator. Seto is learning Italian ahead of schedule. He’s also learning not to “bench dance,” as she puts it. Frivolous and foolish, she calls it. A mockery in an otherwise elegant performance._

_ “The audience comes for the piano, not you.” _

_ She presses the short edge of the ruler to his spine, like the tip of a sword. _

_ Or the barrel of a gun. _

_ “Play with dignity, or don’t play at all.” _

Seto cringes, grateful for the concentration that keeps Atem’s gaze off of him. At least until he’s satisfied with the current section and turns to Seto for guidance. Then those molten eyes slide right back up, dilated with interest. Deliberate. Focused wholly on the task at hand. On  _ Battaglia.  _

On Seto.

The thought gives him a sharp chill. He shoves it down in a vain attempt at self-preservation. 

“That was the last section,” Seto says, mulishly avoiding Atem’s face, despite their shared space on the bench. “I must say, your progress is encouraging.”

Motion tickles his peripheral. He turns to see Atem shrugging shyly.

“Thank you. But um...can we go through it again? From the top?”

Seto hesitates. Wonders how much longer he can tolerate Atem’s presence before self-destructing. 

Somehow one of Atem’s moans from the forbidden phone call leaks into his head, and Seto promptly jerks his hands on the keyboard, startling them both with a sudden clash of sound.

He clears his throat awkwardly and pretends not to see Atem’s doe-eyes. How can he go from lion to lamb so quickly? Fiendish and forward one minute, docile and demure the next? Why does Seto find it so  _ endearing? _

“You’re doing well. I’m...genuinely impressed that we were able to get through all of  _ Scontro  _ so quickly.” 

Seto inches off the bench and to his feet, retreating from the warmth that seems to roll off of Atem’s body like a space heater. 

“Just practice what you can between rehearsals. I can even send you a recording so you can self-correct. No sense in cementing your mistakes.”

He expects Atem to stand as well, and is surprised--and a little unnerved--to see him still sitting there. 

“...Atem?”

The man in question remains seated, and doesn’t seem to acknowledge him at first. His eyes rest heavily on the piano, one finger stroking a white key as if petting a small animal.

“An amateur practices until he gets it right,” he says. “A  _ master  _ practices until he can’t get it wrong.”

Eyes like spring slip up to catch Seto’s. Soft as a lamb. No one would suspect him of making lecherous comments and practically stripping strangers with his gaze.

But Seto knows better. The sagely adage has him staring at Atem, not quite believing that he’s still here, still willing to undertake this unprecedented task. The way the man balked at the mention of a performance, Seto confidently assumes he’s never set foot on stage--not to play piano, anyway, and certainly not to an auditorium of just under a thousand people.

Atem’s cheeks glow an attractive shade of red when Seto fails to respond. His words come in a shy mumble, “...Or so I’ve heard.”

His hands fidget for a moment before reaching for the fallboard, sliding it out by small golden handles. 

“Sorry. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Without any particular plan in place, Seto steps forward and gently lays a hand over Atem’s to stop him, the fallboard held aloft over the keys. 

“You’re driven. I can appreciate that.” Seto retracts his hand and folds his arms behind his back. 

_ Again  _ rings his head like the sharp pang of a bell. 

“...Once more,” he spurs, giving Atem an encouraging nod. 

Atem sits stock-still, like he doesn’t trust Seto’s words. 

“...Are you sure?”

Seto bucks his chin. “You want to play like a  _ master,  _ don’t you?”

He means for it to sound authoritative, but it comes out  _ teasing  _ at best. The sort of teasing that hums with familiarity--affection. A dangerous tone to take with an imp like Atem. 

“Well?”

A quiet moment passes, and when Atem finally reacts, it triggers Seto’s heart like a kickdrum. 

He lights up like a freshly-fed fire, blazing and brilliant. He carefully stashes away the fallboard and situates himself squarely on the bench, fingers already crawling over the starting notes. “From the top?”

Seto can’t help a small smirk at Atem’s enthusiasm.

“From the top.”


	10. Slancio - Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atem is Too Gay to Function II: The Thirstening

-

10

Slancio

_ Passion _

-

Halfway through the first week of rehearsals, Atem has to admit that Seto Kaiba is an excellent teacher. 

Surprisingly patient, despite his prickly demeanor. Accommodating of Atem’s learning style, even as he quips and complains about his lack of training. Hours spent with Kaiba standing and sitting watchfully at his elbow. 

Atem would be lying if he said he doesn’t like the attention.

It would also be a lie to say he isn’t proud of his own progress. He already has Il  _ Scontro delle Spade  _ down to an art. Kaiba makes him play it at least once each session, and more often than not, Atem earns a small, approving nod from him. 

He likes to think Kaiba is proud of him too. Or at the very least, satisfied.

He likes to think about Kaiba, period.

The man’s features remain just as intriguing as the day they met--the hard lines of his face, the shine of his hair, the steel-blue savagery in his eyes. The way he circles Atem like a bird of prey, hungry and alert. 

Atem’s chest still swells whenever Kaiba’s hands brush or bump against his, moving to repeat a section or correct his positioning. His eyes still stray to Kaiba’s inseam, appreciating his long, lean legs, or the flattering fit of his shirts--long-sleeved turtlenecks that leave him fantasizing about ridiculous things like forearms and collarbones. 

It’s all very distracting.

It doesn’t help that, in the hours--literally four or five a day--he’s been spending in the manor, he’s started to pick up little things about Seto Kaiba. Domestic things. 

Things like the smell of his breath--sharp mint in the morning, coffee in the afternoon; or the fact that he has a younger brother, with whom he acts so softly and affectionately that he seems like a different person. He parents Mokuba, that much is clear--and does it well, judging by Mokuba’s blatant adoration and respect for him. Atem is embarrassed by how attractive he finds that.

He’s embarrassed by a lot of things he finds attractive about Seto Kaiba.

His looks? Fair enough. But who daydreams about the shape of a man’s fingernails, how clean and well-kept they are? Or the ripple of his knuckles as he plays piano?

_ How those knuckles would look wrapped around his-- _

Whose chest grows warm when a man brushes the hair from his eyes or taps his temple in thought? 

_ How those bangs would look splayed across his forehead, heavy with sweat-- _

Today’s rehearsal started early in the morning--something about squeezing in some practice before an exceptionally busy day.  _ “I still have a company to run.”  _ At 7:00AM Kaiba was awake and on-task, but there was still a slight rasp to his voice, an echo of sleepiness that Atem had never heard before. 

It took his breath away.

_ Thoughts of taking Kaiba’s breath away--  _

Now, about an hour and a half later, the rasp is gone; but Atem is certain he’ll be hearing it in his head for the rest of the day.

_ \--reducing his voice to a husky pant-- _

“Slow down,” Kaiba tells him. “Playing the correct notes is your first priority.”

Atem shakes himself out of it and nods. “Right.”

Kaiba lifts his sleeve just enough to check his watch. 

“I have enough time for one more runthrough. Go ahead.”

Atem nods again and resets his hands. 

_ Il Scontro delle Spade  _ is by no means uncomplicated; but  _ Nella Valle del Sole  _ is a different beast entirely.

_ “In the Valley of the Sun,” _ Kaiba explained to him, _ “things are warm and content and slow--but intricate. Beautiful. A symphony of life on multiple scales. From the Sun God in his glory, to the lowly grubs in the dirt. This section must capture them both, and everything in between.” _

Easier said than done.

For all Kaiba’s talk of a slow, content summer valley,  _ Nella Valle del Sole  _ is a chaotic wave of notes--riffs and rolling harmonies, tearing through the grass, more of a tempest than a temperate breeze. He plays it with rigid precision, spine perfectly erect and legs firmly planted on the bench. Chin balanced, shoulders still. Eyes tracking across the sheet music in careful flicks. 

It’s hardly his place, and Atem knows it, but he can’t escape the instinct that Kaiba’s playing his own music...wrong. Too quickly. 

Or rather, too... _ mechanically.  _

A roller-coaster without a single hill.

Atem hears sweet spots in the melody, feels a potential lull or rush between notes; but nothing comes. The music marches on to its conclusion, unwavering--bordering on  _ unfeeling.  _

It rubs him the wrong way. 

So when he takes Kaiba’s place on the bench, Atem finds himself wrestling with a new challenge: instinct versus accuracy. Should he try injecting his own touch into the music, or perform as instructed? 

The answer is obvious, he supposes.

This isn’t his piece, or his concert. He has no business tampering with it, passing judgment on how it ought to be played. He doubts Kaiba would welcome criticism from a musically-illiterate amateur. As far as Kaiba is concerned, Atem’s just an extra pair of hands. A means to an end. A tool. 

The thought sinks sourly into Atem’s stomach. 

He resolves to walk in Kaiba’s footsteps, to stay clean and crisp inside the lines drawn out for him. 

He may as well be a useful tool.

Atem trips immediately over the first wave of notes, head distracted, fingers stubborn and unwilling. He tries slowing down, as Kaiba instructs, but the rhythm is still wobbly and wrong. Frustration shoots his accuracy in the foot.

“The notes are  _ there,”  _ he insists, going hot in the face as Kaiba repeats the section for the umpteenth time. “I can  _ hear  _ them, I just can’t….”

Kaiba remains unruffled. “It’s okay. This is definitely more technically advanced than Il  _ Scontro delle Spade.  _ We shouldn’t rush it.”

He catches sight of his watch and straightens up beside the bench. “That’s it for today. I have to get to the office.”

Atem stares ruefully at the keyboard. “...Right.”

The footsteps behind him stop, and there’s a soft tone of charity to Kaiba’s voice when he speaks, “You...may stay and practice a bit longer, if you like. I know how frustrating it is to be stuck.”

“Really?”

He turns just in time to catch Kaiba’s back as he retreats. 

“Isono will see you out when you’re done.”

Atem tries to thank him, but Kaiba’s already gone from the room, swept away on a great, purposeful wind, looking quite the busy business man and playing the part with ease. It leaves Atem blinking in surprise, left alone in Seto Kaiba’s music room as casually as an intimate friend. 

_ Or boyfriend. _

_...or husband…. _

Atem fights the strong urge to ram his face repeatedly into the keyboard.

_ You’ve barely known him a week. _

But what a week it’s been! Atem can’t remember the last time he met someone half as fascinating as Seto Kaiba.

...Still, that’s no reason to be gushing over the man, as if his only dream is to get married. To someone gorgeous. And talented. And obscenely rich.

For a moment, Atem forgets just where he is, so lost is he in the completely innocent and unrelated question of whether Kaiba ever wants to marry. If he even dates. What he’s like as a boyfriend. What he’s like in bed--

“ _ Focus!” _

Atem shakes the sappy, ridiculous,  _ wildly  _ inappropriate thoughts from his head and glares at the piano. 

“ _ Nella Valle del Sole,”  _ he says firmly. “In the Valley of the Sun. Slow and content. ...Right….”

He sets his hands to the keys once more. 

It only takes one try for him to screw up again, and to get frustrated anew.

“Why can’t I do this?”

The notes are there, in his head, behaving beautifully and fulfilling every prophecy of Kaiba’s imagination. But his hands don’t seem up to the task. 

If he doesn’t practice, he’ll forget the section altogether, and Kaiba will have to start with him all over again. 

Atem doesn’t want that. Can’t have that.

He closes his eyes and breathes, letting the silence press in on him, a comforting, liberating presence. 

And he wonders.

Not for the first time around Seto Kaiba, he wonders what would happen. How it would sound...if he just played the melody in his head--with all its hills and valleys exposed, lulls and rushes to cinch and relax its energy. 

He’d be memorizing the notes either way.

...And Kaiba isn’t here.

Atem licks his lip in hesitation. Stalling. He checks around the room, paranoid that Kaiba is still watching him like a hawk.

The coast is clear. He believes that a man like Kaiba is busy enough to leave when he says he will, not loiter around spying on his piano partner. 

Just one runthrough.

The wrong way.

Then he’ll leave and start from scratch at the next rehearsal, resigning himself to Kaiba’s version.

Just once.

He takes a moment to find his place, gently striking keys until the starting notes are correct. 

Kaiba plays the opening notes like a procession. A march.

The way he described the setting, Atem pictures more of a...fluttering. Like a butterfly, or a soft-winged bird. He slows it down, smooths it out. A winding melody edged with quick little frills.

It feels right.

Already the piece has character that Kaiba’s stoic playing didn’t give it. 

Atem feels a bit fiendish, passing such hard judgment on Kaiba--but then the music hits him again, and his heart returns to light. To tailor and trim the melody as he pleases feels so liberating, just like when he improvises, when he lets himself get carried away with the music.

Next comes the breeze through tall silver grass. A wave of flowers rolling in the sunlight.

Deep, earthy. 

Flighty and high. 

Full-bodied trills for every fiery blossom, thick with petals. 

Water runs through the valley, silent and clear. 

Atem slows down Kaiba’s chord progression and plays it smoothly. The water burbles over rocks and plants. Where once it flowed in a straight, unflinching line, Atem gives the water a babbling voice, a rambling shape that bends to the textures of the earth.

Zooming out, expanding the scene. The valley opens up into a rich blue sky--lighter than Kaiba’s eyes, but no less intense--strung with golden clouds. Birds wheel across the heavenly landscape, wings clipped with blinding light. 

The sun god appears, his face sculpted from rays of light and iridescent flares. 

He swings his gaze over the valley, an attractive ripple of sound. The music swells and broadens to accommodate his presence. Eyes like ancient stars take in the breadth of his world. 

Atem feels it in his soul--as if he  _ is  _ the sun god, blessing the beautiful land with his warmth, his love. Flowers turn to face him, the soft wind brushes his ankles like an affectionate cat. Atem bobs rhythmically on the bench, knows he’s officially going off-script. 

But he doesn’t care. Off-script feels good. Feels like his proper place. Just letting the keys guide him.

He opens his eyes to relish in the beauty of the instrument before him. The piano’s pearly teeth and gilded music rack, the impeccable sheen of her cover, the white sleeve of Kaiba’s suit jacket as he crosses his arms.

Atem’s heart jumpstarts in his chest, thumping painful and fast. He stares up into a dangerously neutral face, blue eyes heavy with an unreadable gaze. 

Kaiba flicks his eyebrow.

“Having fun?”


	11. Cambiare - Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaiba is bitter and horny send tweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a birthday gift to myself I'm uploading Chapter 11 & 12 together! It works out well because we're moving into a larger plot-point soon. We'll also be pressing down on the Sexual Tension gas pedal. So that's gonna be fun~.  
> An extra thanks to everyone who's been commenting! I see them all and hope to sit down and respond to everyone soon. Your comments absolutely make my day!  
> Hope everyone is safe and doing alright.  
> Happy May Day!

-

11

Cambiare

_Change_

-

The first song Seto ever wrote was a brief little piece called _Ashes._

Written when he was twelve years old and recorded in the margins of his math journal. Tiny, meticulously-drawn staff-lines, each only a few centimeters across, littered with scratchy minims and crotchets. 

He played it over and over in his head, occupying himself after mathematics ceased to challenge his brain. While his tutor waxed poetic about squaring functions, Seto fantasized about notes drifting through the air--tattered gray snow in the aftermath of blazing tragedy.

Seto was drifting, too.

Tired and torn. 

Carrying Mokuba with what was left of his strength. 

Gozaburo was hardly a savior, but he did provide them with an unprecedented opportunity: a chance to resurrect and reform. All Seto had to do was play along, and Gozaburo Kaiba would hand him the keys to the kingdom. Someday, Seto would be strong enough to clear the wreckage and erect a golden city in its place. 

...But in the meantime, the ashes continued to fall and flurry and fill the cracks in the ruins. Seto was left to trudge through the smoky banks, driven like a mule, watching his every step and holding his every breath. Stay in the lines, stay on task. Obey the rules, hit the marks. Go here, wear this, recite the script and play the part. Behave. Study. Survive.

 _Ashes_ was his form of escapism, his silent rebellion. A piece that was all his own, private and unmolested by his tutors, his adoptor, or the will of snotty audiences around the world. 

If he could play it for real--just once, just to hear it take shape...a part of him might be better preserved. 

Despite all the ruthless rehearsals and lessons, he might be able to water some of the wilting ideas in his heart. The parts of him that dared to want more than just survival. 

The parts of him that wanted freedom. 

Expression.

An artist with a stayed hand finally taking command of his creation. His genesis. Promoting and protecting his very identity with every brush stroke, reminding the world--and himself--who he truly is. 

Seto wanted an identity outside of Gozaburo Kaiba. He could never escape the man’s name, or his deeds, or the sharp mold he broke Seto down to fill. 

But in the dark, behind the bars, he might be able to stash something precious. Something small and shining that Gozaburo couldn’t destroy. 

A song carried in his head. 

_Ashes._

...That should have been enough. The covert defiance of mentally composing music was practically bulletproof. 

But something got the better of Seto. 

Whether it was ambition or desperation is hard to say, even now; but it doesn’t matter. 

Seto brushes the ghost of a wheal on his right arm and remembers just how _quiet_ the manor was that day. 

No one home but the boys and the staff. No afternoon lessons left to sit through. Gozaburo was still at the office, tied up with a major client. Mokuba went upstairs to nap after Isono treated them to chocolate parfaits--their little secret. 

Seto could still taste the cream and pudding when he sat down at his piano, when he played _Ashes_ for the first...and last time.

There was still a faint tang of sour cream on his tongue when Gozaburo came home and found him in the music room, when he saw the informal chicken-scratch that Seto was using for sheet music. 

_“What the hell is that?”_

Seto stumbled over himself, trying to explain how hard he worked to write it, praying in vain that Gozaburo might be pleased with his efforts, his talent. He _wrote_ his own piece of _music._ Aren’t parents supposed to be proud of their children?

...He received no praise. 

Just the kiss of a riding crop across his arm, and a pile of shredded pages in his lap.

Like ashes.

Seto rolls onto his side with a grunt. Clearly _Atem_ has never had to live with such restraint, cornered by the threat of such harsh reprisals. No one whipping him every time he did that ridiculous bench dance of his. The one that accentuated his arms and flexed the shapely muscles of his back. 

His _what?_

Seto reels his thoughts in, blushing. So far, he’s managed not to dream about Atem. He doesn’t want to start now. Or ever. The man is enough of a menace in the waking world; the last thing he needs is free reign of Seto’s subconscious. 

To distract himself from the sight of Atem’s ass rocking on a piano bench, Seto attempts to be angry about the improv. 

Atem _was_ playing _Nella Valle._

At first.

All Seto had to do was turn his back for five minutes (and return for his phone because, for the first time in living memory, he forgot it), and Atem was off to the races, mutilating Seto’s composition like he had _any right._

Well, he says _mutilated,_ but….

Atem’s version of _Nella Valle del Sole_ seemed to better capture Seto’s own intentions. He felt the rise and fall of the music’s character, the nuance that gave it life.

Somehow, he just can’t express it with his own hands. 

But Atem can.

That’s why Seto encouraged him to continue.

 _“Play it just like that,”_ he told Atem. _“_ Battaglia _should reflect both of us. To some extent, at least.”_

_“...You’re not upset?”_

Seto remembers pursing his lips and admitting that he was _furious,_ but that he also thought Atem’s version was… “more appropriate” for the piece. 

_Better._

Seto ended up being late for work; but the way Atem beamed and vibrated on the spot made it worthwhile. 

They left the manor at the same time, and he hasn’t heard from Atem since.

...Not that he needs to.

Or wants to. 

He refuses to get acclimated to Atem’s presence. 

With these thoughts sitting like rocks in his head, Seto finally slips off into sleep. 

Time slides away, dark and dreamless at first. 

_Then he’s kneeling in his bed, skin stripped bare, mind caught in a thoughtless fog. Atem is cast across the sheets beneath him, making_ that face _and_ those sounds. 

_Naked and warm, knees hiked on either side of Seto’s hips. They’re moving together. Locked. Intimate. Silent but for a carnal chorus of moans and drowning breaths._

_Piano keys roll between the sheets._

_Love made like music, note by hot, flush-skinned note._

_Bits of_ Battaglia _clinging to their flesh like sweat._

_Atem whispers something silent, a wayward curl of hair trailing between heavy, hazy eyes. He melts from view, but Seto continues to move, rutting into the bed._

_Sheets shift to piano keys against his fingers._

_Seto tries to play, but something wraps around his waist, warmth pressing along his back._

_“Where’s your passion, Kaiba?”_

_Echoes of Atem’s silken voice crawl into his ear, and Seto feels himself being thrust thoroughly into the keys._

_“Just like that!”_

_Positions switched._

_Energy, passed from Atem’s body to his._

_Sweating._

_Singing like a bird, dizzy moans from deep in his throat._

_Submissive._

_Lips at his ear._

_“I hope you play better than you f--”_

“Hah!”

Overheated. Tightly twisted in sheets.

Seto Kaiba shoots up from his bed, panting.

Maybe he’s feverish. Sick. Plagued by delusional dreams in an episode of insanity.

He moves to escape the furnace of his bedding, only to be stopped abruptly by a distinct discomfort. Wet. Hard. 

_Fuck._

Hard _again,_ with Atem on his mind.

And not just hard.

Clammy and slick with spend.

Did he…?

Just from _dreaming?_

The answer hits him hard between the legs. A leaking, unbearable ache floods his groin. Desperate, dirty, damn-near _painful_ \--

No. 

No, no _no._

The phone incident was bad enough. The dream, he decided, was something beyond his control.

But touching himself to some sick fantasy of his piano partner is out of the question. 

That’s what he tells himself as he stumbles uncomfortably out of bed. Blindly gropes his way to the master bath adjoined to his room. Decides a freezing shower is in order. Shreds off his clothes, feels the open air on his arousal. Gasps and nearly buckles at the sheer _force_ of his need. 

He can’t remember the last time he did... _that._ Can’t even recall what he thought about to get himself through it. Times where his body demanded what his mind was disinclined to give are few and far between for Seto Kaiba.

Or at least, they _used to be._

Atem is the only thing in his head now. Atem’s eyes and voice and mischievous smirks. His wit, his talent, his raw, radiating _passion._

Seto’s hand is suddenly working the length of his cock. 

_Stop it! Stop it…._

He lets out a distressed whimper and continues to stroke, bracing against the shower wall, helpless to stop himself. Rushed breaths bouncing off the tile and warming his face. Faster and tighter, riding the thrill of a sharp _crescendo._

Atem taking him from behind--

“ _Damn it!”_

A violent jerk, beating his free fist on the wall in his desperation to survive his climax. Legs trembling, lips parted, eyes screwed shut and thoughts paralyzed. 

“Damn...it…. _Hng….”_

Barely left standing by the cataclysm, the occasional tremor still stealing through his nerves. 

Panic in his lungs. 

What the hell would Atem think of this?

Unprofessional.

Perverted.

_Disgusting._

His cheeks flare painfully hot, a shame that seeps from his scalp to his toes. Every inch of him accomplice to this disgraceful act.

...And Seto has to admit it. 

He _likes_ Atem. 

He likes several parts of Atem, inside and out. However briefly he’s known the man, however fleeting their (strictly professional) relationship may be, Atem...impresses him. Intrigues him. Gives him embarrassingly genuine hope that _Battaglia_ can finally see the light of day, the destined birth of its immaculate conception, its baptism on the stage. 

A golden city among the ashes.

...But not if Atem ever finds out about this. Not if he ever learns of Seto’s perverse, pervasive thoughts, his feelings.

Feelings?

Seto jerks and reproaches himself.

What _feelings?_

When did involuntary sexual attraction translate to _feelings?_

Laughable. Impossible. This is a business arrangement with unforeseen complications that Seto needs to navigate. It’s nothing new.

He cranks a knob and yelps at the sheet of cold water. 

Scrubs himself raw, tries to rinse away spend and sullied thoughts. Resolves to never, _never_ let Atem know. Panics about what would happen if he ever did.

_How it would feel to be rejected._

Time passes blindly. 

Seto only steps out when his body starts to shake from the cold instead of the nerves. Sloppily towels himself down and practically slaps the light switch on his way out. 

He throws himself naked into bed, exhausted and cold. 

“...Damn it.”


	12. Agitato - Agitated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atem is thirsty af and Kaiba has a bee in his bonnet.

-

12

Agitato

_ Agitated _

-

Hands wound into fists, fingernails stuck deep in the skin of his palms.

Atem berates himself for the umpteenth time today.

He did it  _ again.  _

Against his better judgment, against every valid voice in his head that screamed in protest, he did the unspeakable. This time in his bed, with the apartment all to himself and his bag of silicon accomplices out and ready to go. A premeditated crime of the flesh. 

And as guilty as he feels, he has to admit: taking his time and indulging himself to fantasies of Seto Kaiba lying winded and wanton in his sheets was... _ intoxicating.  _

He may have mewled out the man’s name a few times.

The two of them shifted roles once or twice during his triathlon of sin, and Atem has since decided that if he ever,  _ ever  _ gets a shot at Kaiba, he  _ won’t  _ be  _ picky.  _

Over the past couple of weeks, Atem has come to terms with his feelings for Seto Kaiba...and the fact that he’d probably let the man do  _ anything  _ to him in bed--even though the thought of bringing Kaiba to his knees and making him beg for release is by far Atem’s favorite. 

For such a severely composed man to forfeit control, to yield and bend and  _ break  _ at Atem’s hands...how  _ delicious.  _

The notion is enough to make him hard. 

“Focus!”

Atem knocks a fist against his forehead. 

No getting hard on the train. 

No getting hard  _ around Kaiba.  _ There’s no telling what would happen if Atem’s private thoughts got out, if Kaiba learned of his lust at all, let alone the  _ extent  _ of it. Because truth be told, Atem has pleasured himself way more than  _ twice  _ in the past  _ two weeks. _ And some aspect of Kaiba has been present in his head every single time, whether it was quick and dizzy in the shower, or tired and muzzled first thing in the morning while unsuspecting roommates milled around outside.

His crush is proving incurable, its physical toll growing steeper and steeper, to the point where Atem can’t escape his desire to screw Kaiba senseless--

“Gah!  _ Focus!” _

Someone next to him casts an uncomfortable eye and inches away. Atem ignores them and tries to drag his thoughts in line.

With one week left before the concert, Atem can’t afford any distractions. Especially those that involve his partner (and to some degree,  _ mentor).  _ He’s been keeping up with Kaiba’s insane compositions so far, but a slip in concentration could prove fatal this late in the game.

As Atem understands it, he and Kaiba will be performing at the same piano, playing  _ La Strada della Battaglia  _ in synchronized pieces, as a pianist with four hands.

_ A beast with two backs.  _

Atem nearly misses his stop trying to scour the filthy thoughts from his head. Then it’s a fifteen-minute walk spent outrunning the image of him and Kaiba holding hands and strolling through the neighborhood’s lilac trees.

By the time he reaches the guardpost at Kaiba’s gate, his cheeks and neck are irreparably warm. He decides to blame it on the sun as the guard waves him through, knowing him by sight.

The front door opens before he has a chance to knock, and to surprise him further, Kaiba’s brother is the one that greets him.

“...Hello?” Atem greets him awkwardly.

“Hey! Come on in. Seto’s upstairs.” Mokuba steps aside to let him in, but the welcoming smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wanted to get to you before he did.”

Atem steps back out of the threshold, alarmed. “What? Why?”

“He’s, uh--” An unmistakable door-slam interrupts him from somewhere in the house. “Not in a great mood.”

“Why?”

Atem’s fairly certain it’s not something  _ he  _ did. Last he heard, Kaiba was actually very pleased with his progress, and even said Atem has essentially mastered five of  _ Battaglia’s  _ seven movements. What could possibly have Kaiba so upset?

“Well, there’s this  _ thing  _ tonight--”

“ _ Mokuba.” _

Kaiba comes steaming into the foyer, silent despite his visible agitation.

“Don’t distract him. We need to start rehearsal right away.”

“Sorry, Seto! _ ”  _ Mokuba shoots off like a bat out of hell, and Atem envies his escape when he sees the look on Kaiba’s face.

“Is...something wrong?”

“No,” Kaiba says shortly, taking Atem’s elbow and yanking him inside. He whips the front door shut, and proceeds to drag Atem all the way to the music room.

“Rehearsal will have to run short today.”

“Oh. Something at work?”

A heavy sigh and a small, disgusted noise. “I  _ wish  _ it were for work.”

Atem tilts his head at that. 

Kaiba’s made it crystal clear that his work is paramount to just about everything. Very few things take precedent over it--not even  _ Battaglia  _ makes that cut, and it may as well be Kaiba’s baby.

_ That he’s raising with Atem. _

Kaiba’s too irritable to notice Atem’s near-permanent blush. He hastily shuffles through sheet music while Atem watches on, confused and a bit concerned. 

“Whatever it is, it can’t be  _ that  _ bad.”

Kaiba glances at him, looking almost as cool and controlled as usual. 

“You have no idea-- _ hck!”  _ He hisses and reels back from the music rack, shaking out one of his hands. A small slice of blood rises from the pale skin. 

Kaiba reflexively wraps his lips around the cut, and Atem can’t help staring at their soft color and delicate shape. 

He gently nudges past Kaiba and straightens the sheet music for him.

“Kaiba, what is going on?”

A moment or so passes while Kaiba waits for the cut to clot. When he speaks, he sounds much calmer, inspecting the skin and ignoring Atem’s watchful eyes.

“There’s an event,” he confesses, dropping to the bench and resting his arms on his knees. “A gala, being held by one of my business partners. And if I skip out on it, I won’t hear the end of it for months, maybe even  _ years.” _

Atem takes a seat beside him. “Can’t you tell them you’re working on an important project? And a time crunch? The concert is barely a week away.”

Kaiba’s head twitches anxiously. “Don’t remind me.” He doesn’t seem to mind Atem’s proximity. In fact, he relaxes his leg against Atem’s and seems to have recovered from his spell of tension. “Besides, Pegasus would never buy that.”

“Pegasus?”

“Pegasus J. Crawford,” Kaiba supplies. “CEO of Industrial Illusions. And if you knew him, you’d understand why I can’t get out of this.”

He continues to pinch and prod at the papercut until Atem intervenes, folding a hand over Kaiba’s and lowering them both to his thigh. Kaiba lets him, lets their hands rest warm and peaceful together on Atem’s leg. 

It feels natural.

Warmth spills open in Atem’s chest.

And a thought occurs.

“What if I came with you?”

He expects Kaiba to laugh in his face; but in reality he just taps a finger on his leg, the motion small and intimate against Atem’s palm.

Kaiba shakes his head and gives him a sideways glance. “You don’t want to go.”

“Neither do you. At least this way, you won’t be by yourself.”

A brief laugh. Kaiba looks down and goes an endearing shade of pink at their connection. He extracts his hand and clears his throat. “You don’t have to do that.”

_ But I want to,  _ Atem thinks without hesitation.  _ I really want to. _

What he  _ doesn’t  _ want is to startle Kaiba by being too direct. 

“And, you know…” he says carefully, folding his hands and leaning casually on his knees. “It might be a good idea for me to meet these people--I assume at least some of them will be attending the concert?”

Kaiba squints in confusion, causing the slightest wrinkle in his nose.

_ Cute. _

“Yes, but why does that matter?”

Atem stands from the bench and says wryly, “I may not know the ins and outs of  _ high society,  _ but I have to assume some heads will turn when the  _ illustrious  _ Seto Kaiba brings a total  _ stranger _ onstage for a duet.”

“That’s...not a bad point, actually, knowing these people.”

Atem props a hand on his hip and smiles slickly. “Come on, I promise not to embarrass you~.”

The pink deepens in Kaiba’s cheeks and spreads across his face. He jumps up and busies himself once more with the sheet music. 

“Fine. But when entitled snobs start chasing you around with deeply personal questions, just remember that you  _ asked  _ for it.” He gathers the sheet music under one arm and passes close to Atem, leering down at him with intense eyes. “Try not to get  _ cold feet  _ on me, Atem.”

“Do you really think so little of me?” Atem asks it warmly, grinning and pressing his chest to Kaiba’s. He bucks his chin. “I always finish what I start.”

Kaiba’s response is to cough and put some distance between them. “We’d better get going, then.”

Atem blinks after him. “How early is this party?”

“Doors open at 6:00, but we have to leave now if we want to catch the tailor.”

Something nameless and nervous needles in Atem’s stomach--some unforeseen byproduct of him inviting himself to an upscale gala with Seto Kaiba. 

“Why do we need a tailor?”

Musician’s fingers tug playfully at the hem of Atem’s shirt, a cool touch grazing the skin of his hip. Kaiba’s smile can only be described as devious. 

“To get you a proper suit, of course.”


	13. Coloratura - Coloration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuz every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man~. ;D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do it to 'em

-

13

Coloratura

_ Coloration, Ornamentation _

-

Seto Kaiba apparently  _ loves  _ to drive.

He doesn’t drive out of necessity, as evidenced by the servants, town cars, and sharp white  _ limousine  _ they passed to get here. 

But now Atem’s strapped into the passenger seat of a foreign car with the wheel on the wrong side. Its exterior is a glittering, glassy blue, its interior a rich leather-black, and its dashboard a lightshow of sleek screens and seamless dials--but Atem forgets to appreciate any of this when Kaiba pushes the thing into motion.

Because Kaiba likes it  _ fast.  _

Fast enough to make Atem’s stomach soar at even the slightest curve in the road. Kaiba shifts each gear smoothly, the car barely jerking as they climb in speed. They practically fly over a lean hill and Atem gasps aloud.

Kaiba maintains his devilish smile and takes a cliffside turn like a dream.

“Scared~?”

“Of course not,” Atem breathes, discreetly cinching his seatbelt. 

Kaiba chuckles, and the close, vibrating quarters of the sporty two-door swallow the sound. The sun-polished sea beyond the window cuts a handsome profile of his face. 

Atem gulps and tries to focus on the scenery instead of the perfect, powerful image of Kaiba driving, working the machine like an extension of himself. The smile resting naturally on his lips, light shining steadily behind his eyes. There’s something fleeting and free about him here, something he has yet to let loose at the piano. 

Atem actually finds it rather reassuring, seeing Kaiba so calm and even  _ happy.  _

He actually manages to enjoy the rest of the drive--or at the very least, becomes too distracted with  _ the view  _ to mind how devilishly Kaiba drives.

Things slow down significantly once they enter the city, and when they finally arrive, Atem is actually a bit disenchanted. He liked the bright and blithe energy of Kaiba driving, and is acutely aware of when that energy dips. Kaiba steps out of the car and reverts right back to his rigid, unreadable self. 

Atem laments the change while Kaiba passes his key fob off to a valet.

There’s no mistaking the upscale nature of the entire district, let alone the store they’ve just entered. Atem barely feels safe breathing the clean-scented air, as if it has the same high, unlisted price tag as the merchandise. Bright white floors and crystal fixtures, rows of crisply-folded fabric bolts and ensembles set up in immaculate displays. Atem feels painfully out of place in the old fitted shirt and jeans he wore today.

“So, how does this...work?”

“Just do as you’re told,” Kaiba mutters, promptly abandoning Atem by a rack of silk neckties. 

“ _ ‘Just do as you’re told.’”  _ Atem mocks him sourly. He hears Kaiba talking to someone across the store, and occupies himself with the ties. 

Arranged flawlessly by color, with an impressive selection of suave and subdued patterns. The one that holds his attention longest is the color of liquid gold, with a sheen of faint cubic patterns that he can  _ just  _ feel beneath his thumb.

“Atem.”

Kaiba reappears behind him, flanked by a woman in suit-pants and a ruffled blouse. She has a length of measuring tape draped around her hand. Atem eyes it warily.

“We don’t have time for anything bespoke,” Kaiba tells her, his eyes raking over Atem’s form like the idea disappoints him _.  _ “The event is tonight.”

The woman approaches Atem and unravels her tape. Without warning, she ropes it around his neck and pulls it snug. 

“Not a problem, sir. We can find something close and alter it.”

She proceeds to move the tape down his body, barely glancing at the measurements she takes of his chest, his arms, his waist. She takes a knee and shamelessly runs the tape up his inner leg. Blushing furiously, Atem glances at Kaiba for some kind of support--but the man is too busy watching the seamstress work, eyebrow cocked with interest. 

Atem nearly goes blind with embarrassment when the woman curtly asks him to “adjust” himself.

Right in front of Kaiba.

...Who doesn’t seem keen on granting him any privacy. Just stands there brazenly watching, waiting for Atem to  _ do as he’s told. _

Then he has the audacity to smirk and mouth the words, “ _ Go on~.” _

Atem takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and obliges. Fearlessly takes himself in hand and  _ adjusts  _ so she can finish measuring his inseam. 

“My apologies,” he says coolly, holding Kaiba’s gaze. “Being  _ gifted  _ has its downsides.”

The woman ignores his comment, but Kaiba’s face goes up in flames. Atem manages to slip him a satisfied wink before Kaiba breaks contact, turning his attention solely on the seamstress.

“How long will the alterations take?” Kaiba chivies, avoiding Atem’s face like the plague.

She stands and winds her tape up, unperturbed. “For you, Mr. Kaiba, they’ll be done within the hour. Please, follow me.”

They only walk through the racks for a matter of seconds before the woman has three sets of formalwear in her hands, holding them high to keep them off the floor. 

“Our rooms are this way.”

The next thing Atem knows, he’s alone in a room made of mirrors, plush carpet, and drapes, with a small stack of suits hanging expectantly on the wall behind him. Two black, one gray, all made of materials way above his pay-grade. He tries each of them on, handling them with paranoid care. None of them fit quite right, but perhaps that’s to be expected off the rack. 

They all look generically nice on him, never mind the graphic of an old video game on his shirt--a monstrous red-eyed centipede poking out over each vest. 

He settles for one of the black suits and steps out of the fitting room. From the narrow hallway, he can’t see evidence of Kaiba or the seamstress, which he finds strange. He was certain Kaiba would want to micromanage his fashion. 

Atem sets out in socked feet to find them, but stops short when something colorful catches his attention. 

Across the hall, in a vacant fitting room, is a handsome plum three-piece, and Atem can’t resist the urge to inspect it up close. 

Black velvet lines the lapels and breast pocket. Gilded buttons gleam on an obsidian vest. Pants that match the same rich, reddish violet of the jacket, completing a much more interesting ensemble than the grays and blacks laid out for him. 

It rests in a heap with what must be rejects from another client, and Atem doesn’t think twice before gathering it up and darting back to his fitting room. 

He mindfully works his way into it, and dares to pose for the mirrors. The sleeves and pant legs are a bit long on him, but other than that….

He’s so pleased with the sharp fit and attractive color, that he struts right out onto the sales floor, an airy, excited flutter filling his chest. 

He finds them by the registers. Slips his hands into his pockets and waits. 

The seamstress spots him first, and her face lights up with surprise, and even  _ excitement.  _

“Oh, my…. Look what you found!”

Kaiba looks up from his phone.

Atem is thrilled to see him  _ drop it.  _

A harsh, damning clatter on the floor. 

_ Speechless. _

Eyes glued to Atem, taking hungry laps along his body and looking  _ stunned.  _ His lips part, almost as if to say something, but he decides against it, the ball of his throat bobbing guiltily. 

Atem wears his smirk proudly.

“What do you think~?”

Kaiba apparently has nothing to say, but the seamstress scrambles to shower him with compliments. 

“This is one of my favorite cuts! And in such a flattering color! Sure to turn heads at any event,” she gushes, fussing lightly over the suit, tugging and pinching bits of fabric. “And the fit is nearly _perfect!_ This will take no time at all to alter. It’s like it was made for you!”

Atem nods along politely, but his attention remains solely on Kaiba, who recovers his phone from the floor with as much dignity as possible before striding over to them, keeping a mindful distance from Atem. 

“I suppose it will do,” he says tightly, and Atem can tell he’s being deliberately dismissive. 

He takes that as a win. 

Especially when Kaiba gives him another once-over, eyes tinted with something less-than-calculating. His tongue slips thoughtfully over his lips and it sends Atem’s core into pulsing knots.

“Get changed so they can start on alterations.” 

The command lacks Kaiba’s usual bite, and Atem is content to give him a victorious smile before swaggering back toward the fitting rooms. At his back, he hears the conversation carrying on. 

“ _ Did you gentlemen need any accoutrements to complete the outfit?” _

“ _ He’s going to need a dress shirt. Preferably black.” _

“ _ Allow me to recommend something satin. The smooth weave will pair nicely with his vest….”  _

Atem ducks behind the curtain of his fitting room and realizes just how hard his heart is pounding.

Kaiba likes it.

He’s pretty sure Kaiba likes it. 

The man will probably drop dead before admitting it, but Seto Kaiba likes him in this suit. He might even find Atem... _ sexy  _ in it. Maybe. If Atem has any luck at all. 

He shrugs patiently out of the suit. Drapes it gently over a leather bench beside the mirrors. Scoops up his own jeans and loses himself in thought.

He thought agreeing to perform in a piano concert with a perfect stranger--to whom he is fatally attracted--would be the epitome of strange occurrences in his life; but now he finds himself in an upscale fitting room, about to acquire a suit that has to be worth  _ thousands,  _ mere hours away from attending a  _ gala _ as Seto Kaiba’s  _ date.  _

Atem scrunches the denim in his hands, chest and cheeks burning. 

_...Date? _

God above, is this  _ a date? _

The word hasn’t come up, of course, but the implication is crystal clear. 

He wonders if Kaiba has thought of that. If Kaiba even cares. 

There’s a decent chance Kaiba will walk him to the door and promptly abandon him for the evening, but Atem prefers to imagine a night spent side-by-side, promoting the concert at the very least, and at the very most….

Atem hides his face in his bundled-up jeans, skin blazing as several unlikely scenes flash through his head: sipping wine and exchanging sultry little quips, dancing, drifting away from the crowds and the music to have intimate conversations on some veranda, or a quiet hallway--slinking into shadows to trade kisses and touches, hands under fine suits and breathing mingled--

“Atem?”

The voice startles him out of his thoughts, out of his jeans--which are still bunched up in his hands--and Atem is helpless to stop time as Kaiba pulls open the curtain and leans inside. 

“What’s taking you so long--”

Kaiba freezes. Takes in the singular sight of Atem standing awkwardly in his underwear and nerdy tee-shirt, clinging to his pants like a stuffed animal, red as a stoplight. 

Atem opens his mouth with no particular plan in place. “Ah….”

“ _ Sorry.” _

The curtains fly shut with an impressive ripple, and Kaiba is gone.

Atem lets out a long sigh and buries his face in denim again. Allows himself a couple of minutes to mourn his dignity, then finishes getting dressed. 

When he returns to the sales floor, suit folded over his arms, Kaiba seems just as cool and unaffected as ever. The seamstress is ringing him up, and someone new appears to collect the suit from Atem. This new person lays the suit gingerly inside an apparel box along with something black--presumably a dress shirt Atem won’t be weighing in on. 

“Are we adding a tie as well?” The woman asks. 

Her eyes flick to Atem, but Kaiba is swift to reply, “Yes, actually. I saw one in silk called  _ The Millennium.  _ We’ll take that.” He flashes a quick, appraising look at Atem. “Skinny, if you have it.”

“Of course, sir. We recommend that skinny ties be worn with a clip; will you be needing one?”

“No.”

Atem waits to see which tie Kaiba has in mind, but he doesn’t get a chance to see it. The associate who retrieves it only opens the box for Kaiba before setting it aside.

“That’ll do. Put it on the house account.”

The staff shower them with gratitude. Ask them to allow forty-five minutes for the alterations. 

As they step out of the store, Atem notices that Kaiba’s cheeks look distinctly sunburnt, his posture rigid, eyes focused devoutly on something distant.

“So...we’ve got forty-five minutes,” Atem tries, arms swinging awkwardly at his sides.

_ Wanna go make out somewhere? _

Kaiba makes a noncommittal noise.

Dead end. Try again.

“What should we do to kill time?”

Kaiba doesn’t look at him. “Whatever you want.”

An inviting phrase, delivered coldly. Kaiba pulls out his phone and steps away as if they’ve completed their business.

Atem sighs and stubbornly follows him.

“Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

A frown. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Hardly able to suppress his frustrated grunt, Atem snatches Kaiba’s arm and wheels the man around to face him. Kaiba looks a bit shocked, and definitely perturbed, blinking down at Atem like he can’t believe someone dared to touch him.

Atem puffs out a breath, feeling warm to the tips of his ears. “Listen, if this is about what happened in the fitting room—”

“Nothing  _ happened,”  _ Kaiba spits, eyes wide and face ruddy. “Why would you even bring that up?”

“I _ wouldn’t  _ if you weren’t acting so  _ weird!” _

Kaiba jams the phone in his pocket and crosses his arms, flicking his bangs like a petulant teenager. “What’s weird? Not wanting to have a ‘mall date’ with a  _ business partner?” _

“Wh—?” Atem splutters. Feels his skin grow hot and clammy with shame. He finds himself terrified, irrationally, that Kaiba somehow heard his flirty thought. Maybe he slipped and said it out loud. He slaps a hand over his mouth and tries to compose himself. “Who—” He clears his throat desperately, glaring at the concrete beneath his feet. “Who said anything about a  _ date?  _ I just thought we could….”

_ Hang out? How childish.  _ Atem blushes harder at his own pitiful desires. 

Of  _ course  _ Kaiba only sees him as a  _ business partner.  _ Of course he doesn’t want to pal around the strip mall together. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid! _

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking up just enough to scan the nearby stores, searching for an adequate place to hide. He chooses one with a bright, illegible sign, well down the street, and shoulders past Kaiba to get to it. “See you in forty-five minutes.”

He only makes a few strides before an irritated voice is trailing behind him, “Hey! Where are you going?”

Really?

The man couldn’t wait to be rid of him a second ago. Now he’s nipping at Atem’s heels?

Unbelievable.

“Somewhere  _ fun,”  _ Atem drawls, straightening his shoulders and stopping in front of a dark, neon-trimmed storefront—a next-generation arcade boasting virtual reality games alongside old-fashioned cabinets. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“ _ Excuse me?” _

Atem slips him a pointed glare. “You’re  _ excused.”  _ Flicks his ponytail moodily, and steps inside.

He tries to approach the front counter, but Kaiba’s voice and overbearing presence stop him.

“You realize I  _ own  _ this arcade, right?” He steps up beside Atem with his hands in his pockets, looking smug. “Kaiba Corp has a pretty major hand in Japan’s gaming industry.”

Atem leers over his shoulder. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

Kaiba shrugs blandly, and for once, he doesn’t seem to have anything clever to say. 

Satisfied, Atem marches on to the register. The attendant’s smile is bright and excited as she greets him, her eyes swapping between him and Kaiba.

“Are you together? Any friend of Mr. Kaiba’s gets a free pass~.”

Atem glares at Kaiba and pointedly pulls out his wallet. “We’re not friends,” he grumbles. The attendant struggles through her obvious discomfort. Loads up a keycard and passes it across the counter. Without a backward glance, Atem shoots between the cabinets, determined to leave Kaiba behind. He comes to rest at a dated dungeon-crawler, pouring all of his focus into the pixelated castle scape.

The simple, familiar controls and antiquated charm are on the verge of calming his nerves when he sees an unwelcome face reflected in the screen.

“What was that about?”

Atem whips three enemies to death and scales a curling staircase, doesn’t acknowledge Kaiba in any way.

“Atem—”

“What part of  _ see you in forty-five minutes  _ did you not understand?” He says testily, feeling his chest tighten. “Leave me alone.”

He needs to put the emergency brakes on this crush, that much is clear. If Kaiba can’t stomach the idea of being civil to him for more than five minutes at a time, Atem needs to cut and run before he gets hurt. No close proximity, no furtive glances, no more flirting or veiled attraction of any kind. The concert is a week away. He just needs to cold-shoulder Kaiba long enough to survive it. 

Atem resolves to do just that, to wrestle past the scent and warmth of Kaiba’s presence at his shoulder and ignore him. 

Business partners only.

A means to an end.

Literally an extra pair of hands.

A tool.

They still haven’t discussed compensation, but Atem will make sure they do.

He needs to get  _ something _ out of this.

“Atem.”

“ _ What?” _

“...I’m sorry.”

Atem’s character plummets into a stone crevasse when his hands slide off the controls. He wets his lips slowly, hesitating.

An apology is more than he dared hope for. He decides to press this unforeseen advantage.

“What are you sorry for?” It doesn’t come off as forgiving, and he doesn’t want it to. He wants to hear what Kaiba says. A misunderstanding is the last thing he needs right now.

A long pause answers him, compels him to turn around.

The first thing that strikes him is Kaiba’s body language.

He looks...smaller, somehow. 

The immense, room-filling presence that usually accompanies him is distinctly missing. His arms are crossed, but in a much more withdrawn way, almost as if to hold himself together. He’s failed to flick the bangs from his eyes, dark and downcast in the arcade mood lighting.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, not quite meeting Atem’s quiet stare. “What I said earlier, about the uh….” He clears his throat, clearly off-balance. It reminds Atem of the day they met, both thrown for a loop when their paths crossed in that college piano lab. Only now it’s even more noticeable, and Atem’s chest tightens at how young Kaiba looks in this moment. 

“What I said about the ‘mall date.’ That was...harsh.”

“It was,” Atem adds sharply. He catches Kaiba flinching in the low light. 

Good.

“Yes. Well. Sorry.”

Atem watches him for a hard moment, gauging the sincerity of his words. He breathes to settle his heart and says, “Kaiba, I understand that our professional relationship needs its boundaries.” He hurts himself with his own words. Loses his nerve and lowers his eyes. “But I enjoy your company.  _ Outside  _ of rehearsals. And if that’s too…. That is, if you don’t want us to be  _ friendly….” _ He blushes miserably at the floor. “I need to know.”

Motion catches Atem’s attention—Kaiba wiping a hand over his mouth and muffling his own words. 

Atem squints curiously and pulls Kaiba’s hand away.

“What?”

Fingers clench against his palm, Kaiba’s hand sitting tensely in his.

“I enjoy your company too.”

The sensation that ratchets up in Atem’s chest is hard to describe. Some minor form of madness, giddy and grand, like he could laugh himself to death, or maybe even cry. There’s no doubting Kaiba’s sincerity, not when he radiates such raw, vulnerable anxiety. 

Atem squeezes Kaiba’s hand, a shameless smile splitting his face.

“Really~?”

A strangled squeak escapes Kaiba’s slim, pink lips, and Atem is overjoyed when he doesn’t retract his hand.

“Is there….” Kaiba struggles, boring holes into the carpet between them. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

Atem steps a bit closer, nibbling his lip in thought. He takes a risk and gently weaves their fingers together. When Kaiba makes no move to object, Atem presses on, angling his head insistently until Kaiba looks up at him, eyes uncharacteristically wide. 

Atem finds himself wishing they had better lighting, because he’s one-hundred percent sure Seto Kaiba is blushing up a storm.

He slips Kaiba a playful wink.

“Take me on a mall date~.”


	14. Adagio - At Ease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go on a date~. Atem gets white stuff on his face and Seto wraps his lips around something thick and delicious~!  
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

-

Chapter 14

Adagio

_ At Ease _

-

Their “mall date” only lasted about thirty minutes. But it would be a lie to say Seto didn’t  _ love  _ every second of it.

Most of that half hour was spent in the arcade, where Seto got to watch Atem knock his scores clear off the leaderboards—playing with more and more skill until “YGO” hogged each and every ranking.

_ “‘Y.G.O.?’” He asked.  _

_ Atem smirked. “Yuugi-ou.” _

_ “...King of Games.” _

_ “Exactly~.” _

_ “That’s awfully presumptuous.” _

_ “Is it?” Atem gestured to the leaderboard with an insufferable smirk. “Can’t argue with the truth, Kaiba~. And the truth is on my side.” _

Seto didn’t have anything to say to that. He still doesn’t. 

Being so thoroughly bested and disrespected should have made Seto immeasurably furious, but somehow...it didn’t. Offended? Yes. Annoyed? Absolutely. But not the burning contempt and thirst for vengeance he would expect. 

Instead, it made him feel...driven. Hungry for victory, determined to reclaim the crown Atem had made such a spectacle of stealing. Each round ending with a voracious demand for  _ more.  _ One more round, one more game, one more dive under the wave of adrenaline that was gaming against Atem. 

The man pours just as much passion into the joysticks as he does the keys. His body even rocks in the same invested dance, shoulders and torso jolting and swaying as if he really were the warrior, the beast, the weapon. Seto is embarrassed to admit, even if only to himself, that he did get distracted by it a few times, and it did cost him a few victories.

After that, they wandered past a coffee kiosk where Atem insisted that Seto buy him a “chai cream frapp with extra,  _ extra  _ whipped cream,” which he proceeded to get all over his lips and chin--an image that had Kaiba crossing his legs self-consciously.

Once that torture session was over, they ambled back to the tailor, and Atem’s hand found its way into Seto’s. He didn’t object. 

They collected Atem’s suit and Seto’s car, and were navigating city traffic when Atem started asking about food.

“Will there be dinner at this ‘gala?’”

He’s resting his arm on the center console, infinitely more relaxed than he was on the drive out. Seto twitches his hand on the gear shift, hyper-aware of Atem’s nearby heat.

“Hors d’oeuvres, maybe,” he says. “But no, this isn’t some suburban  _ dinner party.” _

Atem taps his fingers, a small flicker of motion that tickles the corner of Seto’s eye. “So, what are we doing for dinner, then?”

Dinner?

_ We? _

Seto hasn’t thought that far ahead. His eyes pass briefly over the time on the dashboard.

4:30.

He isn’t sure how far away Atem lives, exactly, unless he lives on campus at the university--in which case, they don’t really have time for Atem to go home and eat. Maybe something at the manor--?

“Can we go out?”

Seto shifts gears prematurely, the car lurching and giving an ugly roar in protest. 

“I’m sorry?”

He makes the fatal mistake of glancing over at his passenger. Sees Atem batting his large and lovely eyes, hopeful, undeniable.

“For dinner,” the menace clarifies, innocent as ever. “Let’s go out somewhere before the party.”

“Gala.” Seto focuses on the road, sliding carefully from light to light, the sporty foreign car drawing attention through tinted windows. 

A weight settles over him: the nagging suspicion that Atem enjoys his  _ wallet’s  _ company, too.

He certainly had no qualms about Seto buying--not renting,  _ buying  _ him a high-end suit. Or a free spree at a next-gen arcade. Or artisan coffee. 

“I assume you want to go somewhere  _ fancy?”  _ He says it with distinct venom, but Atem doesn’t pay that any mind.

“Not necessarily,” he shrugs, watching the city roll past his window, oblivious to the sudden nosedive of Seto’s mood.

Suddenly Atem perks up, leaning eagerly into the glass. 

“Oh! How about there?” He points up the road, but before Seto has a chance to spot the exact building, Atem is swatting his shoulder and urging, “Turn here!”

“Yes,  _ your majesty.”  _

Seto’s jab goes unnoticed, and he rolls his eyes, swinging the car into a cramped parking lot. He rolls to a stop and catches sight of the restaurant. Or rather, the tiny booth jammed between store fronts, flanked by ivy-covered concrete walls and a locked gate that blocks the alleyway behind it. The bright signs only advertise one kind of food.

“...Falafel? Seriously?”

Atem slips free of his seatbelt and is already stepping out of the car. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He takes one look at Seto’s incredulous expression and laughs. “Come on--I’m buying.”

Seto nearly forgets to shut off the engine. He locks up and chases after Atem’s excited strut. “We just came from the most affluent district in Domino, and you want to have dinner...at a falafel joint.”

Atem is still smiling. “I’m gonna make you eat those mean words, Seto Kaiba~.” 

He walks close and softly wraps his hand around Seto’s, just like he did at the mall. Casual. Easy. Sweet with seductive normalcy. Seto is too deafened by his own heartbeat to protest. He clears his throat and lets his fingers relax in Atem’s hold. “...Fine.”

“Have you ever had  _ ta’amiyya?” _

This gives Seto pause. He’s never heard Atem speak another language--and such a beautiful one at that. A single word, cradled by that strong, sonorous voice of his, is enough to make Seto’s skin hot. 

“I, uh...can’t recall.” He’s tried a lot of food in his time as a multinational business tycoon’s son. And to be fair, it’s hard to remember anything when he’s fantasizing about how Atem would sound, sex-babbling in another language.

“It’s basically the best salad you’ve ever had, rolled into a crispy little ball.”

The two of them stop close enough to inspect the menus plastered around the window. 

Atem makes a low, hungry moan in his throat, eyes raking over the options. “God, I want  _ all of them  _ in my mouth.”

They don’t even have their food yet, and Seto’s already choking, coughing into his fist and averting his eyes from curious bystanders. He’s not even sure Atem  _ meant _ to be indecent. For once there was no  _ look,  _ no wink. He doesn’t even have to  _ try  _ to get Seto’s blood rushing. 

How the hell is he supposed to survive this man?

“What looks good to you?” Atem asks, idly swinging their linked hands. 

Seto decides to give their beef a try. Atem orders something more standard--asks for chickpeas instead of fava beans. Next thing Seto knows, he and Atem are side-by-side along the ivy wall, Atem having hoisted himself up onto its ledge, just barely bringing them to eye-level.

Atem is already halfway through his second fried ball, making orgiastic sounds with each bite. Seto blushes at the scene.

“We had this  _ everywhere  _ in Cairo,” Atem tells him, pointing at his plate. “It’s easily my favorite food. I’m so glad they serve it here.”

_ Cairo? _

“You’re from Egypt?”

Atem makes an affirmative noise, chewing. He swallows and nods. “That’s right~.”

Kaiba picks up a falafel ball and sets it right back down, too intrigued to eat. “When did you move to Japan?” 

“When I was sixteen,” Atem replies, eyes drifting out of focus, seeing something much farther away. “My mother had just passed, and the only other family I had was here. So...here I am.” He manages half a smile, but the sadness seeps right through it, and Seto’s heart aches at the sight.

_ Gaining a brother, losing a mother.  _

_ A father taken in a storm of crashing metal.  _

_ Stripped of inheritance, stripped of family and kindness. _

_ Thrown to the wolves.  _

_ The orphanage. _

_ The adoption. _

_ Ashes-- _

“...I see.” Seto says lamely. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Atem scoops some leftover filling off his plate and pops it in his mouth. “It’s okay. I was lucky to have relatives willing and able to take me in.”

“Yes, you were,” Seto snipes without thinking. He didn’t plan on being so bitter, and immediately regrets his tone. Backpedals desperately, “Er, sorry. I-I didn’t mean….”

He’s surprised, not only by the presence of Atem’s smile, but by its unhindered warmth. 

“Don’t worry.” He scoots a bit closer, thigh brushing up against Seto’s arm. “...I think I know what you meant.”

That small, simple sadness is back, and Seto shivers at the thought that Atem somehow knows his past. Maybe he looked it up? Did research on Seto Kaiba shortly after striking their deal? 

Seto’s thoughts fizzle out at the warmth of Atem’s presence beside him, heat and kindness rolling off of him like sunlight. Without really thinking, Seto’s gaze gravitates upward and gets snagged by those molten eyes. Fire flowing just beneath the surface, welcoming in its heat, soothing in its glow.

...No. Nothing so insidious as research. Atem is intelligent, fiercely so. Observant, compassionate, and mindful in all that he does. Perhaps he just pieced it together. Or perhaps it’s just one of those things that people can sense about one another--the cracks and creases that tragedy leaves in a person’s spirit.

He finds himself leaning into Atem’s side, consoled where he didn’t even realize he was hurting. Atem props an arm behind Seto’s back, and they sit that way for a long, warm while. 

Seto finally digs into his own serving. A mouthful of well-spiced meat, tomatoes, greens, and shot of something citrus--coriander, maybe. He holds the flavor on his tongue, savors it gratefully, then swallows and mutters, “Wow.”

“Good, right~?” Atem sets his plate in his lap and plucks up one of the palm-sized patties. “Here, try some of mine.”

He brings it right to Seto’s mouth, and for his part, Seto’s hand twitches uncertainly, debating whether he should just snatch it from Atem’s fingers. 

This day has already gone completely off the rails, and Seto figures he may as well go for it. 

He takes the food obediently into his mouth, lips a bit stretched as he bites it in half. Slow, hesitant over the intimate gesture, the high-powered laser of Atem’s attention. He looks up from under his lashes, and is met with something interesting.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen this look on Atem’s face before. His eyes look darker, overtaken by blown-out pupils, liquid with something unfathomable, something that spills pressure and heat through Seto’s chest. 

Atem’s lips are parted and freshly-wet.

Seto stares at him curiously as he chews, completely forgetting to absorb the flavor. Something tickles the corner of his mouth--probably just some stray falafel filling. He lifts a hand to rub it away, but Atem moves faster, leaning in to retrieve it with his lips. 

A kiss and a quick swipe of tongue, leaving a small wet patch on Seto’s skin and a violent strike of lightning in his blood. 

Atem rears back and shudders as if coming out of a haze, cheeks blazing. 

“Sorry, you had some, um….” He scrambles awkwardly across the ledge, putting some space between them, eyes and hands fidgeting. “You had--I got it though. I mean, it’s gone now. I just--I, uh. Sorry. That was….”

Seto puts him out of his misery by grinning, even though every cell in his body is shrieking in confusion and arousal. “Thanks.”

Atem blinks owlishly at him, then gives a small, sweet laugh. 

“Hah…. You’re welcome~.”

They finish their food in surprisingly comfortable silence, and as they’re strolling back to the car, Seto’s hand finds its way into Atem’s.

And Atem doesn’t object.


	15. Legato - Tied Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seto gets carried away, and Atem follows suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s impressive how some couples can be on the same page, right down to the words and the font in which they’re written, without even realizing it. And Seto and Atem may not be an official “item” yet, but I‘d still call them a couple.
> 
> A couple of idiots.

-

Chapter 15

Legato

_ Tied Together _

-

Seto Kaiba already showered this morning, but Atem doesn’t need to know that.

Not when Seto desperately needs a moment to himself--a very  _ private  _ moment.

That intimate little incident at the falafel stand left Seto in a bit of a  _ state,  _ one that had him chewing out one-word answers to Atem’s questions on the ride home (Ridiculous ideas of what to expect at a “ritzy not-dinner party”). It was all he could do not to crash the car reliving the feel of Atem’s lips and tongue across his skin. 

Getting them both back to the manor in one piece was quite the accomplishment on Seto’s part, and the best reward he can think of is a shower.  _ Now.  _

“I should probably wash up too,” Atem says, and it nearly gives Seto a heart attack. 

Does he mean they should both shower... _ together? _

No! No, no, no. That has to be the most idiotic thought Seto’s ever had. 

Images of Atem naked and wet and  _ smirking  _ have him barrelling toward the staircase, almost forgetting to tell Atem about the guest rooms on the second floor. 

“The room at the end of the hall has its own bathroom.”

_ As far away from me as possible.  _

“W-Wait, where will you be?”

He catches Atem trying to follow him, hesitating on the landing, packaged suit in his arms. 

“Upstairs. Just wait for me in the foyer.” Seto doesn’t risk more than a glance over his shoulder--his body is starting to betray him, apparently fed up with waiting and completely indifferent to Atem’s presence. Perhaps even  _ goaded on  _ by it.

He does his best to hide his ripening erection behind the bannister.

“Kaiba--?”

He doesn’t hear the rest. There’s a ringing in his ears and fledgling fire in his flesh, rising with every intention of burning him alive. 

Something tells him willpower won’t be enough to save him--it certainly wasn’t enough last time. And if he doesn’t take care of this before the gala, he’ll be in for a long, excruciating night. 

Seto slams his door and is already shredding off his clothes as he crosses the room. By the time he locks himself in the bathroom, he’s stripped to the skin and thoroughly hard.

He steps into the shower like a confessional, fully aware of his previous sins. Can’t believe what he did then, can’t believe he’s about to do it again. Turns the water on reflexively. Wishes the initial rush of cold water were enough to make him soft, but the carnal mutiny persists. He angles away from the spray, prays that its watery roar will be enough to swallow his tender gasps as he lays a hand on himself. 

Does Atem realize how lecherous his actions are? 

He has to; he does at least half of it on purpose!

The fear from two weeks ago resurfaces, that Atem is just humoring him, pursuing him for the sake of a quick lay--

Quick? 

After two weeks of dedication to  _ Battaglia?  _

Unlikely.

_ Maybe Atem wants both?  _

To do  _ Battaglia  _ justice as a pianist….

...and to sleep with--

“Damn it!”

It’s taking longer this time. Even with unholy images of Atem soaked and panting in his mind, the deafening pressure in his body has yet to abate. Seto knocks his head against the cold wall, hand slowing to idle, thoughtful strokes along his length. 

“Damn it…. Why can’t I…?”

_ Why can’t I cum? _

He sways a bit, dizzy with shame--or is it  _ need?  _ Can arousal be that strong? Potent to the point of crippling? A couple weeks ago, he might have objected, tried to reason that a well-trained mind can override any base instinct the body throws at it; but here and now, with an indescribable sensation choking him from the inside out, he has no choice but to say  _ yes.  _

His desire to taste and touch that man’s body is making him positively  _ weak. _

Desperate for any kind of relief—any at all.

_ I want to cum. _

The thought startles him, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to deny it.

_ I  _ need  _ to cum. _

He’s running out of time. The gala--

“ _ Please,  _ Atem!”

Seto trembles and buries his face in his free hand. 

Did he just…?

His grip is working over his cock again, a fresh new energy urging him onward, chasing a thread of pleasure that promises relief.

He doesn’t have the time or the courage to think about the words tumbling out of his mouth, the sinful actions he’s committing. All he’s good for in this moment is pumping his shaft and moaning helplessly.

“Please, Atem... _ hah….” _

_ Atem looming over him, cock majestic and erect as he splits Seto’s legs apart and slips him a promising wink. _

He can feel it working now, pressure giving way, moving forward, a sharp slope downward, steep, sending him sliding toward completion. Picking up speed, resonating louder in every bone, every drop of blood rushing to his heart and back. 

_ Atem’s voice drizzling down his spine, lips and tongue and teeth at his ear as that distracting artwork of a body drapes over his, slots between his legs. Atem rocking into him, breathing sinful obscenities into him, playing him with all the passion and skill of a master pianist at the keys.  _

_ “What’s the matter, Kaiba? Too close to the edge~?” _

“Yes,  _ yes.  _ It’s too much! I want...I want to….”

_ “You want to cum, Kaiba~?” Atem croons, slamming into him.  _

He doesn’t even know how it feels to be... _ taken,  _ but the thought alone has him reeling, hand rocketing desperately along his cock, drinking in the memory of that dirty dream, the one where Atem claims him from behind, thrusts him over that ledge--

“Yes, yes,  _ yes!”  _ Kaiba practically cries, eyes screwed shut. “I want to cum,  _ I need to cum!” _

_ Atem chuckles and stops his hips, holding Seto captive on the edge of relief. He seals a hand around Seto’s shaft and squeezes hard. Halting. Forbidding. Withholding.  _

Seto’s hand mimics the motion, and it wrenches a broken moan from his lips.

_ “You want it~? Then  _ **_beg_ ** _ for it.” _

“ _ Hck!  _ A-Atem!”

Seto Kaiba has never begged for a damned thing in his life; but he’s begging now. Drilling gasps and hiccups into the cold, wet granite, pleading and prostrating and making noises higher and sweeter and more  _ helpless  _ than he ever thought he was capable of.

It’s liberating, in a way—the wanton crying of Atem’s name, lips rooting against the tile, searching for a mouth to kiss; the bodily bucking into his own hand, trembling under the water stream as his legs brace farther and farther apart. 

Seto doubles over where he stands, presenting himself to an invisible lover, scrambling to imagine the feel of a cock filling him up.

“Let me cum, Atem! Please,  _ please,  _ let me  _ cum!” _

_ Atem cooes his approval. Says, “Good boy,” and pumps Seto’s shaft with loving attention. Suffocates Seto with a kiss and murmurs, “All right, Seto~. You may cum.” _

“ _ Ah-hah... _ Atem….” A pitiful moan. “Atem, I’m gonna c-c-c…!”

_ “Cum for me, Seto.” _

“ _ Fuck!” _

It hits him hard. Hard enough to make his legs shake and his voice crack, tripping over one last moan of Atem’s name. 

He comes back to himself slowly, breathing hard and barely registering the large spatter of his release on the shower wall. His eyes slide back into focus, and after a long moment, he manages to reclaim his breathing. 

A thick, dry swallow.

“...Fuck.”

-

Still dripping and smelling of the eucalyptus soaps he found in the guest bathroom, Atem boldly climbs his way to the third floor. 

The soft, resort-caliber robe he’s borrowing is large enough to wrap around him twice, and keeps slipping open above the belt. He holds it snug across his chest and listens, keen on any sounds that might lead him to Kaiba.

Kaiba’s acting weird again. He was suspiciously quiet on the drive back, and as soon as they stepped through the door, the man was brushing Atem off and high-tailing it upstairs. 

Worried that he slipped up again, somehow undoing the golden glow of their afternoon together, Atem follows the hiss of running water to a door halfway down the hall. 

He knocks. Gets no response.

Tries the handle. 

Unlocked. 

Atem pauses and worries his lower lip.

It would be an awful intrusion on Kaiba’s privacy, and any affection he gets from Kaiba already feels hard-won. The man’s trust cannot possibly be easy to recover. 

And yet….

“Your last risk was rewarded,” he reminds himself, harking back to that brazen stunt at the falafel stand, to the way Kaiba smiled and said  _ thanks  _ instead of punting him into next week. “Take another. He’s worth it.”

He nods resolutely and lets himself in. 

Ends up standing thunderstruck in the doorway, because this has to be the master bedroom. 

And it’s  _ immaculate. _

Large and airy and filled to the brim with sunlight, a wall of glittering windows holding up the far end of the ceiling. Clean, cream-white carpet with faint, breezy motifs, and furniture hewn crisply from dark, handsome wood. A king-sized bed with silver linens and canopy curtains drawn tastefully back from their posts and dyed the deep navy of the night sky.

To distract himself from thoughts of how luxurious sex would be in that bed, Atem focuses on the trail of clothing strewn across the floor. He recognizes Kaiba’s outfit from earlier—a lilac turtleneck and crisp white blazer, his pants, his shoes, his socks...his underwear.

They lead to a closed door. An adjoining bathroom, probably. The source of the sounds that led him here. 

Kaiba’s showering.

And taking his sweet time, by the looks of it.

Atem sighs and turns to leave. He’ll just have to confront Kaiba later. 

“ _ Please,  _ Atem!”

A blast of panic like ice in his chest, heartbeat in high gear. Atem stands frozen on stepping stones of discarded clothes and stares at the bathroom door. Did he mishear?

That was definitely Kaiba’s voice, but….

Did he just…?

Atem’s mind tries to write it off as a cry of frustration, of anger, even of distress or panic; but he knows better. His body recognizes them with a pang, the sounds of pleasure, of lust. Sounds he can already feel his body reacting to. 

He should walk away. 

_ Now.  _

“Please, Atem... _ hah….” _

Muffled only slightly through the door. A cry that strikes Atem dead between the legs. He finds himself closing in, pressing a heightened ear to the wood. Beneath the spray of water he starts catching strangled gasps and tiny mewls. His skin comes alive with excitement, with eager, thunderous arousal that makes him tremble on the spot.

Seto Kaiba is moaning his name in the shower.

That can only mean one thing, and Atem would have to be a complete idiot to doubt it. 

The thought has him smiling ear-to-ear and tearing up with a heavy wave of relief. 

Kaiba is attracted to him. Of that, he’s certain. It may not be the heart-stopping adoration that Atem himself has been harboring, but it’s enough.

Damn it, it’s  _ more  _ than enough.

He dares to gently try the handle, not thinking clearly about what might happen if he crashes Kaiba’s erotic shower--but the point is rendered moot.

The door is locked. 

He could call out to Kaiba, announce his presence, try to convince the man that only good things will happen if Atem is allowed in; but the strategist in him advises against it. He strongly suspects that once Kaiba clams up, it’ll take the jaws of life to pry him back open again. 

He should leave Kaiba to his privacy, continue playing this game of theirs with patience.

...But instead, he leans heavily on the bathroom door and lets the robe slip from his shoulder. Slides down to the floor and parts his legs. The robe splits to expose his fresh, unflagging erection, and Atem doesn’t hesitate to stroke himself, wondering hungrily about the fantasy in Kaiba’s head. 

He hears little gasps of pitiful distress. 

Licks his lips and whispers against the door, “What’s the matter, Kaiba? Too close to the edge~?”

Oh, the way he’d tease and torment that man in bed. Dangling him over the cliffside until he’s begging and bucking, behavior unbecoming of someone so well-disciplined. 

Kaiba’s next words are a bit too distorted by the barriers of wood and water, but Atem can just make out the words “I want...I want to….”

“You want to cum, Kaiba~?” 

Atem thrusts up into his own hand and wishes he could see Seto Kaiba right now. How does he touch himself? Lying on his back, legs thrown lewdly wide? On his knees, prostrate and ready to be  _ taken?  _

He slaps a hand over his mouth to silence the needy groan in his throat. 

On the other side of the door, Kaiba is  _ whining.  _

“Yes, yes  _ yes!  _ I want to cum,  _ I need to cum!” _

If there’s any chance in heaven or hell that Kaiba can hear him right now, that they’re somehow sharing this moment like a duet at the keys, Atem wants to make it count.

“You want it~?” He simpers, a little loud for a whisper. “Then  _ beg  _ for it.”

“ _ Hck!  _ A-Atem!”

Even in his most liberal fantasies, Atem never imagined just how  _ sweet  _ Kaiba’s voice could sound. A helpless, feather-light note that makes his body arch with the desire to nurture the man making it.

That’s what he’d do, Atem decides, pumping himself shamelessly and devouring the dream of ravaging Kaiba’s flesh--he’d slip inside the bathroom, inside the shower, then drop to his knees and suck the man to completion. 

“Let me cum, Atem! Please,  _ please….” _

Atem’s breath hitches, getting close, jerking and kicking on the carpet to a stolen symphony of sex. The weight of a quickening cock on his tongue, or shoved deep inside him--or better yet, the trembling heat of Kaiba’s body cradling his own shaft--

“ _ Hah!  _ Ah…. Cum for me,  _ habiibii _ .  _ Cum for me!” _

“ _ Fuck!” _

This must be it--the counterpoint, the  _ climax.  _

Atem gnaws his knuckles and releases to the sound of Kaiba’s labored breathing, the way he hiccups and huffs as he spills his seed. Atem spills his too--messily over his fingers, down the creases of his thighs, dribbling onto the cream-white carpet between his legs.

_ Shit. _

He cleans up what he can with the robe and tries to stand on sex-atrophied legs. Still working to catch his breath, he rushes through the room and out into the hall, taking care to close Kaiba’s door as he goes. 

“This can’t go on,” he gasps to himself, moving shakily down the stairs. “I have to tell him.  _ Soon.” _

_ Before I do something reckless. _

More reckless than spying on Kaiba and touching himself?

Atem shakes his head, embarrassed, anxious, completely overwhelmed with joy.

“Tonight,” he breathes, tossing a resolute glance up the staircase. “I’ll tell him tonight.”


	16. Ballabile - Danceable, Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys put on some finishing touches and head to the gala. Seto is a socially inept pineapple.

-

Chapter 16

Ballabile, Act I

_ Danceable, To be Danced To _

-

It feels like years have passed since Atem first arrived at the manor this afternoon, blissfully ignorant of what the day would bring.

Now he’s wearing a trench in the polished floor of the foyer, pacing and watching the grand staircase with anxiety-heightened senses.

_ I have to tell him tonight. _

Tell him what?

_ I have a crush on you? _

Childish.

_ I want to screw your brains out? _

Uncouth.

_ I can’t get you off my mind? I’ve fantasized about everything from shower sex to marriage when it comes to you? I know it’s insane, but I might actually be falling in love— _

Atem jumps at a nondescript sound, terrified that Kaiba’s going to sneak up on him and suddenly know all of his secrets. 

Nothing happens. 

Atem forces himself to breathe. 

Fidgets with his suit jacket. 

Realizes he can’t remember the last time he went on a date.

He nips his lip nervously. 

Can this even be considered a date? Could their time at the mall? Is he accidentally dating Seto Kaiba?

He doubts Kaiba sees it that way. Sexual attraction isn’t the same as affection, and one doesn’t presuppose the other. Still, the whole situation has Atem’s nerves through the three-story roof.

Atem toys with the end of his necktie: silken gold with soft, cubic patterns.

_ The Millennium.  _

Did Kaiba see him eyeing it? Did he buy it because Atem liked it?

...They probably have similar tastes. Gold is hardly an unpopular color, and Kaiba clearly has at least a passing eye for fashion.

Atem sighs. He likes the first sentiment better.

It’s been a while since he wore a tie, and it shows. His knot is lopsided, and he’s worried that the tail will be visible all night. In his defense, he was a bit of a jittering mess at the time. 

This entire day has been chaotic, his tie may as well reflect that.

Atem’s phone hums in his pocket.

A text from Yugi.

_ Remind me why I’m closing all by myself tonight? _

Grateful for a distraction of any kind, Atem shoots a text back,  _ The shop isn’t exactly huge. You’ll live! _

An emoji blows raspberries at him.

_ Seriously though. What’s this “event” about? Your text was really vague. _

Atem worries his cheek and decides to err on the side of honesty. 

_ Some kind of rich people’s gala. Don’t know what the occasion is, but Kaiba has to go.  _

After a moment’s hesitation, he adds,  _ And I offered to go with him. _

_ To a gala?? What are you gonna wear? You left home in your Centipede shirt today. _

The next text comes punctuated with a sweat drop emoji:  _ Unless rich people are into videogames from the 80s. _

_ Kaiba...might have bought me a suit. _

_ HE BOUGHT YOU A SUIT?!?! _

Atem winces and checks the staircase. No sign of Kaiba. 

How long does it take the man to get dressed?

_ Rented* It wasn’t too expensive. _

Blatant lies. 

_ Oh. Ok.  _

_ As long as it doesn’t cut into your pay. _

_ Do you have a number yet? _

Soft thudding from the floor above. Moving down the stairs, growing louder. 

_ Gotta go. Talk later. _

He catches a brief glimpse of Yugi’s next message before cramming the phone back in his pocket, 

_ Have fun! _

“Atem.”

Seto Kaiba looked sharp and beautiful the day they met, and has continued to do so every single day since. Atem has grown more than used to the orderly polish of his hair and the clean, attractive style of his clothes. 

But Kaiba seems to have an exceptional talent for catching Atem off guard.

About halfway down the grand staircase, hands in his pockets, Seto Kaiba looks  _ resplendent.  _

Atem expected it to be white, not unlike what Kaiba wore that day in the piano lab; but the suit hugging Kaiba’s form is a deep dusk blue. Fitted and flawless, breathing with a soft sheen of light as he moves. Buttoned up tight. A silver vest winking underneath—a single, brilliant star against the pitch-black cosmos of his shirt. An argent tie to match, tucked neatly into his vest.

The suit is stunning, there’s no doubting that—but Atem forgets all about it when he sees that Kaiba’s hair is  _ styled. _

Swept gently back from his temples, smoothed behind his ears. His bangs, so often drawn like curtains across his forehead, have been gathered up and flipped tastefully to one side, exposing the severe line of his brow and painting a new picture of his face. It makes him look particularly distinguished. 

_ Gorgeous. _

Atem doesn’t realize his mouth is hanging open until it’s too late, until Kaiba is standing close enough to show off how perfectly the suit complements his eyes. 

A knowing smile dances there. 

“What do you think~?” 

Mockery. Clear as day. But Atem can’t bring himself to play coy in the face of such potent adoration, crashing through him with reckless abandon. He lightly traces the ridge of Kaiba’s lapel.

“You clean up well, Mr. Kaiba.” He manages a playful tone, but the grin on his face is genuine—revealing. His fingers drift up to brush carefully along the sculpted wave of Kaiba’s bangs. “Your hair looks really nice like this.”

There’s an indescribable weight to Kaiba’s voice when he says, “Thank you.”

Atem steps back and fusses with his own bangs, still a bit damp from the shower and falling in untamed curls around his head. “I wasn’t sure what to do with mine,” he confesses. “I’ll just...tie it back up, I guess.” He gathers the thick locks behind his head and wonders where he left his binder.

He finds it in his pant pocket and makes quick work of wrestling his hair into it.

“Leave it down,” Kaiba says suddenly.

Atem stares at him for a long moment, anxious, still clutching the ponytail at the base of his neck. “Wouldn’t it look more ‘professional’ tied back?”

Kaiba rolls his eyes. “It’s a glorified party. You don’t have to look  _ professional.  _ Just nice.”

He reaches behind Atem’s head and pulls the binder back out, freeing every wild black whorl. He ruffles it lightly with his fingers and teases the bleached strands at Atem’s temples. 

Atem swallows around the heart-shaped lump in his throat. “Okay, but it’s going to get frizzy.”

“That’s what this is for.”

Kaiba excavates a palm-sized bottle from his pocket, and Atem speculates on just how much he has hidden away in there.

“You just...carry hair products around with you?”

Kaiba steps behind him. “Do you not?”

Atem flounders around for a response, but Kaiba continues, 

“Relax. I thought it might be useful, so I brought it down with me.” 

“What is it?”

“Oil spray.”

The sound of spritzing liquid falls around Atem’s ears, and he feels a cool, soft mist settling into his hair, releasing a welcoming amber scent.

“Besides,” Kaiba continues, shielding Atem’s eyes from the mist. “I know this whole gala thing was...unexpected, and you don’t have any of your usual toiletries here, so….”

“How thoughtful~.”

“Shut up.”

Atem’s laugh dissolves into a deeply pleased moan when he feels those talented fingers burrow into his hair, scraping softly along his scalp. 

The fingers freeze.

“Sorry,” Atem says, “That feels nice.”

_ Really  _ nice. 

Lip-biting and pants-tightening nice.

Nice enough to make his fingers and toes curl with intimate energy.

“It’s been a while since someone else did my hair.”

“...Ah.”

Kaiba’s fingers tentatively start to move again, and Atem refrains from moaning. He does, however, lean into Kaiba’s touch and roll his shoulders just a bit at the luxury of it. 

Standing so close, he can smell Kaiba’s cologne. Pale and musky and dangerously inviting.

Atem hums. “You smell nice.”

“O-Oh. Thank you….”

Too soon, the little massage is over, and Kaiba is standing in front of him again. He nods his approval and leaves the oil on the end of the bannister. His eyes travel, unafraid, along Atem’s body. 

“They did a good job. That suit fits you perfectly. ...You look lovely.”

The smooth thing to do would be to strike a pose and wink, maybe make a flirty comment about Kaiba’s roaming gaze—but Atem is too flattered and flustered for any of that, so instead he plays with his sloppy tie and murmurs, “Thanks.”

An unhappy look fills Kaiba’s features. “Except for  _ that.” _

“What?”

Kaiba pulls him in by the elbow, eyes angled at his chest. “Have you never tied a tie before?”

Atem’s cheeks go up in flames. “Of course I have!”

He balks at Kaiba’s unconvinced glare. 

“...It’s just been a while, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.”

Atem presses his lips into a pout as Kaiba buries his fingers into the messy knot of his tie. Undoes it with a bit of tugging at Atem’s neck. As he’s fixing it, Atem has nothing better to do than stare into the fine, silky embossments of Kaiba’s own tie—barely-there starbursts and swirls like the tails of comets. 

He’s also preoccupied by the faint, warm sweetness of Kaiba’s breath passing over his forehead. When did he have something sweet? Maybe some type of mint?

_ I could probably use one,  _ he thinks self-consciously.

His eyes wander as far as Kaiba’s lips before falling back down to his chest. He blushes hopelessly at the scant few times Kaiba’s fingers tickle the hollow of his throat.

Kaiba runs the knot up, snug and just shy of too tight. He smooths and straightens it, pressure trailing down Atem’s chest and making his skin itch with pleasure.

“There,” Kaiba asserts, though his fingers linger just a beat too long. “Which brings us to the finishing touch.”

He dips a hand inside his jacket and produces a square velvet box. He holds it out for Atem to see, fingers gripping the edge to pry it open.

Atem’s heart whirls violently into his throat. Unbidden thoughts of rings and vows and honeymoons and  _ consummation  _ fill his head to bursting, pulse hammering over a flurry of impossible ideas.

_ We haven’t known each other long, Atem, but— _

_ I know this is sudden, but— _

_ There is no gala, I just wanted everything to be perfect for when I— _

Atem is fantasizing about saying “yes” when the lid lifts to reveal something very different from a ring. He blinks at the contents, heart slowing down, private embarrassment freezing his blood as he realizes just how ludicrous that fantasy was.

“It’s a tie clip,” Kaiba says. “And cufflinks. Someone gifted them to me years ago, but I’ve never worn them.” He moves the box forward expectantly. “You may borrow them.”

The longer Atem stares at the set, the more awe washes through him. “Is that real…?”

“If I remember correctly, they’re made from twenty-four-karat gold and Mozambique rubies,” Kaiba says casually. “So yes, they’re real.”

He plucks the tie clip out first—pure gold with a solid bar of inlaid ruby. He attaches it near the bottom of Atem’s tie. “This will keep it from swinging around and getting tangled. Hold out your wrists.”

Atem does so without a thought, and watches closely as Kaiba pins the gold-rimmed ruby studs to his jacket.

“These hold your sleeves shut in lieu of buttons. And they look nice.”

“That’s an  _ understatement.”  _ Atem twists his arm to get a better look at each cuff. 

Normally, when he hears “ruby,” he thinks of deep red, or even the bloody streak of color in a black stone; but the gems set into the cufflinks have a distinct orchid hue. Sweet, springtime pink made rich with the occasional flash of sunset-red, or a playful purple wink.

“They’re  _ stunning….” _

“They match your eyes.”

Atem throws a wide-eyed glance at Kaiba, but before either of them can really react, another voice cuts in.

“Hey, guys! Lookin’ sharp~.”

Mokuba comes bounding down the steps with a backpack and a pillow, and the rigid form of Isono trailing behind him.

Kaiba easily turns his attention away from Atem, checking his own silver cufflinks, a sleek and casual image. “Did you remember to pack everything?”

“Yeah! I even got all my old games to fit!”

Kaiba stops him by the top of his head. “I meant toiletries and clothes.”

Mokuba rolls his eyes, puts his whole body into it. “Yes,  _ Mom.” _

“Good.”

As Kaiba gives Mokuba a quick and practiced lecture about behaving himself, Atem notices the teenager’s backpack is hanging open. Without preamble, he steps in to tuck the sleeve of something back inside and zip it shut. His fingers have barely left the nylon when Mokuba starts moving again, apparently none the wiser. Kaiba, on the other hand, is giving him an odd look. 

Isono moves to usher them forward. “Shall we, sirs?”

Kaiba swivels that odd look to Isono next, then seems to snap out of it.

“Yes,” he sighs, straightening his jacket with a sharp tug. “Let’s get this over with.”

-

The gala is apparently closer than the sleepover, because Mokuba is still piled into the town car with them when they arrive. 

Atem doesn’t dare lean around for a view out the window, because it would mean increasing his contact with Kaiba’s body—the twenty-minute drive was torturous enough with their thighs flush and Kaiba’s elbow bumping gently into Atem’s arm. 

Kaiba is quick to slip out the second Isono opens the door. Atem attempts to follow suit, but is held back by a hand on his shoulder. He turns to find Mokuba beckoning him closer, as if to whisper a secret. 

“Pinot Noir,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like a clue of some kind.

Atem has no idea what to do with it. “What, like the wine?”

Mokuba nods and gestures minutely toward his brother. “He’ll be a lot more fun to be around. Trust me.”

“ _ Atem.” _

The man in question is calling him impatiently, and Atem climbs out before he can get himself in trouble.

For his part, Mokuba puts on an innocent smile and waves. “Bye, guys! See you on Sunday!”

Isono shuts the door and assumes the wheel. They pull out of the curving drive, and Atem is officially marooned at a high-end gala, at the mercy of Seto Kaiba.

Atem clears his throat anxiously and sets his sights on the venue: a mansion much bigger and flashier than Kaiba’s, crowded by a menagerie of loud flowers and ornate sculptures. The walk to the entrance winds around an absolute  _ lake  _ of a fountain, where water spouts as tall as a tree. The building only seems to have two stories, but the upper floor opens onto a huge balcony that runs the length of the facade. People already dapple the railing above, and a small crowd surges slowly through the front doors. 

He suddenly feels very nervous—nervous enough to glance at Kaiba and murmur, “Are you sure about this?”

Kaiba appears to be taking in the scenery with just as much trepidation. 

“No. Come on.” He bends an arm and watches Atem expectantly. 

Atem’s heart stirs in his chest, but he hesitates. Kaiba probably doesn’t mean to enter with Atem on his arm. That’s something only a couple would do, and they certainly aren’t a couple. This isn’t even a date, regardless of what wild fantasies are tearing around Atem’s head like a bull in a china shop. 

“Take my arm.”

“What?”

Kaiba tilts his head toward the entrance. “Today, please? We look ridiculous just standing here.”

“Oh.”

Atem shyly curls his fingers through the crook of Kaiba’s elbow, buries his other hand in his pocket to keep from fidgeting. Kaiba sets a steady, if slightly stiff pace, and Atem falls into it easily—probably because his nerves are just as agitated.

“You’d better muster up that sexy confidence of yours,” Kaiba whispers as they join the queue at the door. “You’re gonna need it.”

“My—?”

“ _ Kaiba-boy!” _

Kaiba closes his eyes and swears vulgarly. Atem lays a second hand on his arm in concern, but can’t get a word in before a man in bright red appears before them. To Atem’s surprise, Kaiba turns as if to shield him from view, taking the brunt of the stranger’s attention.

“Pegasus,” Kaiba’s greeting comes out in a hiss. “Since when do you greet all your guests at the door?”

“Oh, I don’t,” Pegasus drawls, brushing a veil of long silver hair over his shoulder. “But I saw you coming up the drive and I  _ had _ to make an exception. I didn’t think you’d grace us with your presence. So, what do you think of my newest summer home—?”

Atem’s blood freezes when the man’s eyes alight on him. 

“Oh! And my eyes weren’t deceiving me. You brought a plus-one~!”

Pegasus leans around the barricade of Kaiba’s shoulder to stare at Atem with uncensored awe. 

“And who might you be~?”

“A friend and colleague,” Kaiba tries to interject, but Pegasus dismisses him with a wave.

“I’m sure the young man can speak for himself~.”

Atem gives Kaiba’s arm a small, reassuring pat before drawing himself up and putting on a smile. 

“Call me Atem,” he bows his head slightly. “It’s a pleasure.”

“It certainly is! Pegasus J. Crawford. Industrial Illusions. Welcome to my little housewarming soirée.” Pegasus extends a hand and Atem readily shakes it. “That’s quite a grip!”

“Thank you.”

Pegasus lets off a joyous laugh, and Atem enjoys the relief of a small victory. 

“Let’s get some drinks in your hands~. I feel a toast is in order!”

Pegasus starts flagging down a server. Kaiba goes dead rigid at Atem’s side.

“What the hell is there to toast?”

The brightly-dressed host sweeps an arm at them. “Seto Kaiba not only deigns to attend my gala, but arrives with a pretty young thing on his arm! Of course I’m toasting to that!”

“The hell you are,” Kaiba grumbles under his breath, and the very second Pegasus looks away, he’s securing Atem’s hand on his arm and bolting into the crowd. 

They come to rest several throngs away, in the shadow of a thick, marbled pillar wrapped in gauze drapes.

Atem laughs.

“ _ That’s  _ who you’re afraid of? What’s he gonna do,  _ flatter  _ us to death?”

Kaiba frowns. “Don’t underestimate him. Don’t underestimate anyone. Not here.”

“You say that like we just walked into a war zone.”

“We did.”

Atem rolls his eyes. Beside him, Kaiba busies himself with surveying the entry hall, swiveling like a periscope, keen as a predator.

...Or rather, paranoid as prey.

“Oh, no, we are  _ not  _ spending the entire night cowering in the shadows just because you’re  _ allergic  _ to social situations.”

“I’m—?  _ What?” _

Atem locks their arms together again and struts out from behind the pillar with Kaiba in reluctant tow. He angles them toward the main hall, where even larger swaths of well-dressed guests congeal. Music and the muffled drone of chatter drift around them. 

Kaiba gives a hard yank on Atem’s elbow, and when Atem glances up at him, something in his face looks genuinely terrified. “Atem….”

Young, anxious, and absolutely  _ precious.  _ Atem isn’t terribly surprised. Kaiba isn’t even  _ approachable  _ half the time, much less a social butterfly eager to commune with strangers. He wonders: is Pegasus’ gala truly the pit of vipers Kaiba made it out to be? Or is Seto Kaiba just that introverted—even  _ shy? _

He can see why Mokuba recommended wine, but decides to see how far he can get without it.

Atem smiles warmly, stroking Kaiba’s arm in encouragement. 

“Take it easy,” he murmurs. “It’s just a party.”

Kaiba’s lip curls, unconvinced, and Atem is quick to add, “And at least you’re not here alone, right?”

That seems to calm him down a little. The death grip on Atem’s arm relaxes, but shows no signs of letting go. 

Atem lays a comforting hand over his. 

“C’mon,” he urges softly, stretching up to drop a quick kiss on Kaiba’s cheek. “Let’s have some fun~.”

  
  



	17. Ballabile - Danceable, Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Cecilia is still alive and Pegasus is just a regular rich asshat, instead of a rich asshat with access to ancient powerful evil magic. 
> 
> The gala continues. Sexy dancing ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the late update. I was dragged back into work yesterday despite the stay-at-home extension in my county, worked a 10-hour day for the first time in about two months, by myself, in a store where walk-ins aren’t allowed and only like 6 people called. I was beyond exhausted last night. So here’s chapter 17, and 18 should go up tonight around the usual time.  
> Thanks for reading

-

Chapter 17

Ballabile, Act II

_ Danceable, To be Danced To _

-

There are a lot of things for Seto Kaiba to be worried about right now. 

Business. Appearances. Rumors. Reporters. The concert.  _ Battaglia.  _ His feelings for Atem that rush like wildfire in a drought—he’s still hung up on the way they left the mansion, with Atem casually fussing over Mokuba, and Isono addressing  _ them  _ instead of  _ him,  _ as if he worked for a married couple. It was all so minor and domestic, and he  _ can’t  _ get over it.

And now he has to worry about how Pegasus will behave tonight, now that he knows about Atem. How Atem will behave if he falls out of his depth. How he’s supposed to survive the sociopolitical minefield laid before him, with a civilian in tow. 

These things were clamoring in Seto’s head the entire car ride, effectively putting his mind in gridlock and his heart in perpetual arrest.

But now, somehow, he feels suspiciously calm, and clear-headed. 

As if Atem kissed a  _ reset  _ button on his cheek. 

The worries are still clustered somewhere in his brain, but all he can really concentrate on is Atem’s sympathetic touch and stabilizing presence beside him. 

He realizes right away that he has nothing to fear when it comes to Atem’s behavior. 

While he’s made it clear that he’s unaccustomed to a world where six-figure incomes are child’s play, and something as trivial as a misplaced smile could trash your company’s stocks, you’d never guess Atem’s disadvantage. Not with the way he effortlessly slips from one cloud of small talk to the next, pouring out duende and charm like a fountain, deflecting one person after another with vapid compliments and swift fibs. 

Seto doesn’t make any particular effort to educate him on the affluent idiots that fill the room—the few dozen he even knows. He doesn’t need to. Atem has a bloodhound’s nose for finding the source of someone’s vanity, their trick knee, the thing that’ll make them tick. He reads people as easily as road signs, and Seto finds himself being entranced all over again. 

He gets so caught up in watching Atem dazzle his way around the room that he forgets to speak. The way the man’s eyes come alive, the way he animates and laughs heartily at every snobbish joke, the liquid smile he wears when he’s challenging someone’s defenses—and winning.

The awe tips over into something else when Atem goes so far as to take some woman’s hand and kiss it. 

As they’re walking away, Seto finds himself grumbling, “Kiss-ass.”

“I was just being chivalrous.”

Seto retracts his arm from Atem’s and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Chivalry is dead,” he snips. “No one kisses hands anymore.”

“It’s old-fashioned, but people still do it. She certainly didn’t seem to mind.”

“Of course  _ she  _ didn’t!” Seto bites his tongue to stop himself. Grimaces down at the pearlescent floor. “It’s not the eighteenth century. Get with the times.”

He feels Atem’s stare weighing on him, but refuses to look. 

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Silence. Seto pointedly keeps his hands to himself and points his flushing face at the floor. They’ve stopped walking, adrift along the outer edge of the room. He sees Atem’s feet shift. 

“...Kaiba.”

Seto swallows quietly and lifts his head. 

The bloodhound is back, and this time he’s sniffing out Seto. Atem’s gaze is incisive and his interest is intensely piqued. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to be hot on its trail. Seto doesn’t like it.

Atem leans in.

Seto leans away.

“Are you  _ jealous?” _

“ _ What?”  _ The blood drains from Seto’s face—then slams right back into it. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

Damn it. Blushing like a school boy with a crush.

“What could I possibly have to be jealous of?” He tries, eyes darting around, looking anywhere but at Atem. 

A feather-light touch on his shoulder wrangles his attention. Atem is suddenly a lot closer, nearly chest to chest. A warm hand moves from his shoulder to his jaw, tracing like a ghost of passion beneath his chin. 

Atem is making  _ that face.  _

“If you wanted my attention,” he purrs, “all you had to do was ask~.”

Seto jerks his chin free and takes a step back, desperately ignoring the heat collecting in his core. “What’re you…?”

Atem snatches his hand, and, with fierce and unflinching eye contact, brings it to his lips. He lingers there much longer than he did with the woman, mouth shifting to press warm, slightly-slick kisses to each knuckle.

A small, strangled sound wriggles its way out of Seto’s throat. Breathless. Aroused. 

Embarrassing.

But he can’t possibly retreat. Atem’s eyes are positively hypnotic, pinning him in place while that mouth works intimately over his skin. It leaves Seto shuddering violently and wishing they weren’t in such a public place. 

“Ah-Atem...please….” He whispers helplessly, not sure what he’s pleading for.

_ Please, we’re in public…. _

_ Please, don’t stop…. _

Atem finally withdraws his mouth, tangling their fingers together and smirking. He turns his head at the sound of music swelling to fill the hall, a sprightly pop song with smooth, romantic lyrics.

He turns a mischievous eye to Seto. 

“Dance with me~!”

Quick to rob Seto of any chance at escape, Atem darts between the other guests, dragging Seto to an open spot among the crowd.

“I don’t dance,” Seto tries, casting nervous glances around the room as Atem positions their hands. One around Seto’s waist, the other gripping his hand securely. Seto warily lays his free hand on Atem’s shoulder.

Atem smiles. “Well, you’re going to~.”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Atem gives an answering smirk and tugs both of their bodies into motion.

“Wait,  _ you’re  _ leading?”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry. “I guess it’s just in my nature to  _ dominate.” _

Seto swallows a hiccup at the innuendo. Atem simpers like he knows a dirty secret and continues guiding them smoothly around the floor. Seto glances down to see their feet interchanging cleanly—no stepping on toes, no tripping over ankles. It’s as if they’ve been rehearsing ballroom dance for two weeks instead of piano.

Currently, they’re swaying in a simple box step, but Seto still finds himself impressed.

“Where did you learn to dance?”

Atem starts pulling them in small circles, the world spinning indifferently around them. 

“A friend of mine is studying to become an instructor,” he says. “She insisted that I learn at least  _ some  _ moves. No embarrassing her on the dance floor.” He laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound Seto’s ever heard.

He smiles without really thinking.

Atem twirls himself under Seto’s arm, pressing his back to Seto’s chest, arms entangled.

“She says I have an excellent sense of rhythm.” He winks. “Try to keep up~.”

“Wait, what—?”

Atem swings out in front of him again, arms extended and fingers firmly entwined. Steps in, quick and close, and picks up the pace of their feet. Chest to chest for a fleeting moment before they’re moving again, arms bending and bodies whirling to the upbeat tones of the music.

“Ready?” Atem breathes, and Seto is absolutely  _ not  _ ready for the man to spin him out like a top, snapping them right back together in a fast, clean spiral.

Seto knows how to waltz. It was the only dance he was permitted to learn under his father’s tyrannical tutelage; but Atem seems to be luring him into some kind of tango, kindling the energy of a legendarily fiery dance.

While he’s not overly familiar, Seto prides himself on being a quick study, and Atem senses this. He breaks each step into easily-mimicked motions, and as the moves evolve in complexity, Seto finds himself following Atem’s lead with aplomb.

Atem calls out terms as they go— _ salida, cunita,  _ cross steps, embraces. He courts Seto along in a  _ sweetheart walk,  _ “Like lovers strolling through a park~,” and gives him a swift dip whenever he tries to protest.

Then he introduces  _ foot play. _

Seto’s been picking things up pretty well, but evidently “foot play” is meant to catch him off guard. 

“Think of it like flirting,” Atem says, flashing one of his most charming smiles. “I can  _ tease  _ you—,” 

He stops one of Seto’s feet with his own, forcing Seto to rethink his steps.

“ _ Trap  _ you~.” He catches Seto’s leg and pedals it in a long sweep, adhering Seto’s body to his and briefly immobilizing him. “Each move is a  _ challenge,  _ to keep you on your toes and test your bond with your partner.”

Seto frees himself with a narrow spin. “It’s a game.”

“Exactly.”

Seto’s first attempt at laying a trap is a success. Atem laughs in delight when Seto jams his leg, and the sound is infectious. 

Seto chuckles and dodges Atem’s retaliating steps. “I like it.”

“I thought you might.”

Their dance only escalates from there. Atem keeps the lead, but Seto is determined to make him work for every second. In return, Atem assails him with expert maneuvers that he conveniently forgot to demonstrate. Hard stops, solid catches, long, slow sweeps that drag him off-balance—bending and molding Seto’s body into any shape he pleases.

Seto forgets to fight it. 

The heat and weight of Atem’s body against his, shifting and cradling and guiding him in this decidedly sexual dance—it proves too intoxicating to resist.

“You learn quickly,” Atem praises, walking them out in a line. 

Seto blushes and deflects, “It’s...not that hard.”

Atem tilts his head and grins knowingly. “Don’t be modest, Kaiba. It doesn’t suit you.”

The only response Seto can muster is to clear his throat and focus on the sheen of Atem’s tie. 

“Oh,” Atem says suddenly. “We seem to have an audience.”

Seto doesn’t dare look. He keeps his eyes solely on Atem, glancing between his face and his body language as they move. “So?”

He looks up in time to see a dangerous smirk on Atem’s lips. 

“So let’s finish strong~.”

“How do you mean— _ hah!” _

He’s not sure how Atem manages to manipulate someone twice his size, but in seconds, the man has him folded neatly into a finishing pose.

“This figure,” Atem explains in a ragged breath, “is called  _ open legs.” _

“I can see why,” Seto pants back. Their breathless chests are flush, with Seto’s leg lunged so far behind him that Atem has to bear his weight. It brings them nose to nose, and Seto can’t ignore the explicit intimacy of his front leg hiked high around Atem’s hip, a hot hand securing him by the thigh.

...Their chests aren’t the only things pressed together.

Seto barely registers a round of whistling applause around them. He’s lost completely in their mingling, labored breaths, their fiercely-locked eyes, and the undeniable presence of Atem’s body between his legs. 

He’s reminded of Atem’s quip about being  _ gifted. _

“Atem….”

Heavy orchid eyes, sure hands, lips parted and pupils wide with interest.

“...Seto.”

Breath hitching hard in his lungs, blood stirring—has Atem really never called him that before? 

In this delirious moment, this fresh, raw wave of disarming intimacy, Seto wants nothing more than to seek out those lips and—

“ _ Bravi,  _ boys!”

Seto is on his feet in a second, silently gathering Atem at his side.

Pegasus circles in on them, an applauding vulture with a friendly look in his eye.

“Kaiba-boy, I had no idea you were such a passionate dancer!”

“I don’t dance.”

This only trips Pegasus up for a moment before he’s laughing into his wine glass. “But your  _ beau  _ does.” He gestures his glass toward Atem. “And that’s enough, isn’t it?”

Seto’s fingers curl apprehensively across Atem’s lower back. “What do you mean,  _ enough?” _

The grin on Pegasus’ face almost looks genuine. He crosses his arms and idly swirls his drink. “Why, to bring you out of your comfort zone! Expand your horizons~. We don’t call them our ‘better half’ for nothing, right? You know, my Cecilia—,”

“ _ Better half?  _ What the hell are you talking about?”

Pegasus brushes him off with a small wave. “I just think it’s refreshing to see someone  _ cracking _ that shell of yours~.”

“Excuse me?”

The man ignores him and leans conspiratorially toward Atem, lowers his voice to an indiscreet stage whisper. “The Seto Kaiba  _ I know  _ wouldn’t dance for a billion dollars!”

“That’s because he’s already a billionaire.”

The two of them dissolve into laughter, and Seto feels thoroughly betrayed—his only comfort is the way Atem rubs his arm and beams up at him. 

“Sorry;  _ multi-millionaire.” _

“I  _ will  _ leave you here,” Seto threatens, but he’s already smiling back. 

Atem bucks his chin cockily. “Nah, you’d miss me too much~.”

Seto doesn’t deny it.

His mood is on the mend until he looks up to see wide-eyed incredulity on Pegasus’ face—the same look Mokuba gave him when he first invited Atem to perform with him. He bristles. “Are you still here?”

Pegasus shrugs and rolls his eyes off somewhere else, acting casual until something catches his eye. 

Something about Atem.

He steps closer and reaches a hand toward Atem’s tie. “That clip you’re wearing…. May I?”

Atem flicks his eyes to Seto before muttering “Uh, sure?”

Pegasus takes delicate hold of the tie, inspecting the clip closely. 

“I don’t suppose you’re wearing cufflinks?”

Atem holds up his wrists, and Seto realizes all at once what’s happening.

“We get it, Pegasus, you like jewelry. Now, if you don’t mind—,”

“Ah-ha! I knew I recognized that design!” Pegasus straightens up and turns that surprised look on Seto again. “This is the set I gave you!”

Seto can feel Atem’s stare on him, but he doesn’t risk meeting it. 

“Yes, yes! I remember! I wanted to show my gratitude for the success of the first major collaboration between our companies. I thought someone with such impeccable fashion sense would appreciate them, but you never wore them, not once! I was certain you’d sold them or thrown them away,” Pegasus blathers on, feigning distress.

He takes a drink and slips Atem a presumptuous look over the rim of his glass. “But now I see you were saving them for a  _ special occasion~.” _

Atem chuckles nervously. “O-Oh, no, no. I’m just borrowing them for tonight—,”

“Well don’t give them back. They look  _ stunning  _ on you.”

Seto chances a look at Atem in time to see him look down shyly, teasing one of his cuffs and mumbling “Thank you.”

_ This has gone on long enough,  _ Seto decides. He reaches for Atem’s hand and gives Pegasus a warning glare. “We’ll let you get back to your party.”

“Of course~.”

The host makes no move to stop them as Seto leads their retreat, but it may be too late. Atem’s demeanor is small and quiet beside him. He must be  _ mortified. _

_ I brought him here. This is my fault.  _

Seto clenches the hand that isn’t pulling Atem along. 

_ I have to fix this. _

“Let’s get some air,” he suggests gently. 

Atem doesn’t look at him, just tugs anxiously on his tie. 

“...Okay.”

-

_ This has gone on long enough,  _ Atem frets, following Kaiba out of the dancehall. He leads them onto the running balcony outside, and keeps walking until they’ve escaped the other partygoers. They luck out with a low lit corner at the far end of the balcony, cluttered on one side by a veil of untamed ivy. Atem welcomes the privacy.

_ I have to tell him,  _ he repeats internally, and he knows it’s true—no matter how badly his stomach twists at the thought of confessing.

A couple of hours must have passed. Night is seeping in around them, the summer sky dimming and dulling overhead. The silhouette of the city is turning black, a distant glitter of lights trimming its skyline. Cool air, still and laced with muffled music and chatter. The soft green scent of menagerie flowers drifting up from the courtyard below.

Atem’s heart hammers painfully despite the serenity of their little corner. He leans heavily on the stone balustrade and forces himself to breathe.

Getting lost in his feelings for Kaiba is way too easy. Today alone, he’s gone completely under, so deeply submerged in their chemistry that he forgot where they really stand. 

Pegasus' ribbing didn’t even faze him. But it should have. Kaiba’s offended reactions reminded him of that. 

It’s clear that things like that are going to keep happening unless he clears the air.

He has no idea what he’s going to say, but he figures he’d better say it now, before his nerve abandons him.

Atem opens his mouth to speak—

“I’m so sorry, Atem.”

—and closes it again. Stares up at Kaiba in confusion. “...What?”

Kaiba settles on the balustrade beside him, eyes dark and focused on something far across the grounds. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Pegasus was way out of line. I hope he didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“About what?”

Kaiba takes a turn looking confused. “About us?  _ Beau  _ this and  _ better half  _ that?” He looks away, rushing a hand through his hair, nearly destroying the sculpted curl of his bangs. “I mean...yes, you’re here as my...as my date, but….”

Atem’s heart flutters at the small admission.

“But we aren’t…. We aren’t  _ together.”  _ Distressed blue eyes turn to him for some kind of guidance—the planes of that beautiful face alive with a glow of color. “...Right?”

_ I have to tell him tonight. _

Until now, Atem has been lost for words on how to come clean about his feelings for Kaiba; but he takes one look at the opportunity dropped in his lap and seizes it.

_ Take the risk. He’s worth it. _

He chews his lip for a split second, then breathes deeply and finds Kaiba’s hand in the deepening shadows.

“No, you’re right: we’re not together,” he affirms, feeling light and foolishly invincible as adrenaline spikes his system. “...But I’d be lying if I said I hated the idea.”

Kaiba’s hand rests heavily in his.

“What do you mean?”

Another deep breath. He takes a beat too long to respond.

“Atem—?”

“I like you.”

Silence.

Long, uncertain, agonizing silence. 

He’s grateful for every second that Kaiba’s hand remains in his palm.

Kaiba wrinkles his nose, confused. “I...like you, too? That’s why we’ve been spending so much time together? Well, outside of rehearsals….”

The man’s untroubled tone makes Atem sigh in frustration. Of course that didn’t get his point across. He really screwed himself with that friendship speech at the arcade.

“No, no,” he bowls on, riding a wave of courage, “I mean I’m attracted to you.”

Eyes slipping all over, avoiding the man beside him. Pulse fluttering through his blood, a breathless conniption threatening to consume him as the flashpoint nears—the moment of dreaded truth.

“I won’t do it now, because we still have the concert to focus on, but when that’s all over….” His free hand grips the balustrade for dear life, nails scraping across the stone, trying to expel as much energy as possible. “I want to keep seeing you. Romantically. I want to ask you out.”

Atem is the one who drops Kaiba’s hand, turning to brace himself over the wall of crafted stone, staring blindly down into the courtyard. “You don’t have to say yes, of course. You don’t have to say anything—not right now. ...Not ever, I suppose. Just know that this is how I feel, and this is what I want. If I’ve been acting strange, it’s because I can barely think straight when I’m with you. And, as maddening as it is, I want to pursue that feeling, if you’ll have me.”

This next bout of silence is enough to petrify him. 

“...I just wanted you to know,” he flounders, terrified to look up, willing to do anything to sew shut this painful, silent rift, anything to soften the impending blow. 

He may have just ruined everything.

He may scare Seto Kaiba out of his life for good.

He almost doesn’t notice the feather-light hand on his shoulder, the softest push, requesting his full attention. Atem turns slowly; first his body, then his head, his frightened eyes lifting at the last possible moment.

Kaiba’s expression is damned impossible to translate, but if Atem had to guess for his life, he’d say Kaiba looks about as scared as he himself feels. He shifts to lay both hands on Atem’s shoulders, standing face-to-face, barely a body’s width between them.

Atem waits, silently fearing his sentence, a cold tingle at the nape of his neck, like the guillotine’s blade could fall at any second.

That’s when Kaiba bows his head and leans a kiss against Atem’s lips. His body feels rigid, energy barely contained in tightened muscles, as if the kiss has a much heavier payload than the soft, close-lipped touch Kaiba is giving him. Nose tips pressing together and fingertips practically trembling in the fabric of Atem’s suit. 

It lasts long enough for them to exhale together, warm breath brushing intimate skin.

And then they’re drifting apart. Atem’s eyes open to see Kaiba shuddering above him, chest lurching with excited breath. 

“Kaiba…?”

“Seto,” he corrects in a whisper. “I like it when you call me Seto.”

A warm, beautiful wave of raw emotion crashes over Atem’s heart. He can only nod—a slow, distracted bob of his head. “...Seto.” His palms slide along Kaiba’s lapels. “I don’t mean to pressure you—,”

“ _ Please  _ just kiss me.”

_ Gladly. _

Atem casts his arms around Kaiba’s neck to haul him down, claiming control of their next kiss—breaking and connecting in small, increasingly hungry patterns, tilting his head so he can taste every angle.

He feels Kaiba huff wantonly against his lips. Gets carried away and flashes the tip of his tongue across Kaiba’s mouth.

Something lets loose.

All the tightly-bound inertia slams from Kaiba’s body into Atem’s. Hands are folded around his face, and Kaiba’s weight is driving him into the balustrade.

Atem buries his fingers under Kaiba’s collar and hangs on for all he’s worth, moaning in surprise when an eager tongue darts between his lips. It’s clumsy and wet and full of knocking teeth, but it’s the best damn thing Atem’s ever felt. He suckles that invasive tongue and shivers at the way it makes Kaiba mewl.

Retaliation is swift—a long leg pushes between Atem’s thighs and wedges against his groin. 

He breaks the kiss off with a hard gasp. Tries to speak, but can’t find a single word. Tucks his head under Kaiba’s chin and proceeds to nip and kiss at his neck, grinding onto his leg and bending a knee so Kaiba can do the same.

They rock and grind together in that ivy-strewn corner for several minutes, until Atem can feel himself—and the cock hungrily riding his leg—getting hard. He’s trying to loosen Kaiba’s collar, lips descending and hunting for more skin, when Kaiba pants, “Stop” and nudges him away by the jaw.

“What’s wrong?”

Kaiba lifts and straightens his collar, fingertips checking along his neck as if to make sure something is hidden.

Atem finds it strange. Despite their heated entanglement, he hasn’t left any marks—as much as he’d like to. Maybe Kaiba thinks otherwise?

Kaiba tightens his tie and tries to catch his breath. “We’re in public.”

“So?”

A breathless laugh. “ _ So,  _ some of us were born with a sense of shame and decency.”

Atem gives a toothy smile. “How boring~.”

That makes Kaiba laugh again.

“Can we get out of here?”

For some mysterious reason, Kaiba has to button his jacket back up—certainly not because Atem was devotedly undoing it a moment ago. He glances at Atem gratefully. “ _ Please.  _ I’ve had more than enough of this gala.” Navy eyes rake over Atem’s form, pausing pointedly where his arousal is making itself known. “...And not nearly enough of  _ you.” _

Atem loves the delicious thrill that rattles through him. He slips his hands into his pockets and simpers at Kaiba’s lovely, flushed face. 

“Lead the way, Mr. Kaiba~.”


	18. Marcato - Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seto begins to see that he truly has nothing to fear.

-

Chapter 18

Marcato

_ Marked _

-

Seto Kaiba has one thing to worry about.

Nothing to do with the gala; Isono was there in a heartbeat, and the two of them managed a surgically clean escape. 

Now they’re safe and sound in the back of the town car, bound for home. Atem is grinning and peacefully looking out the window, one hand resting quite comfortably on Seto’s upper thigh. His fingers occasionally stretch to brush the bulge in Seto’s lap.

He wants Atem.

Atem wants him. 

That’s not a problem.

Mokuba is gone for the night, and the staff will be going home—including Isono.

That’s not a problem, either.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but that fear is completely eclipsed by the intoxication of Atem’s touch.

No, Seto is worried about the scars.

Atem came way too close to finding one on the balcony, and Seto can’t think of anything less sexy than having to explain that his father leashed him like a dog, or literally  _ whipped  _ him into shape. 

Atem clearly has an eye for lovely things, and what could be more hideous than a body riddled with welts and scars? Each of which has a story that Seto is in no mood to disclose, not when all he wants to do is ride this unexpected high before it ends.

He definitely wants to experience Atem naked, and he knows he’ll be expected to reciprocate.

But then Atem will see them. Won’t want to touch them, to touch  _ him.  _

Maybe...in the dark?

Oh, but what if Atem  _ feels  _ them instead? Brushes one with his hands or his lips and rears back, disgusted, asking  _ “What the hell is that?” _

Seto winces. Doesn’t react the next time Atem softly gropes him through his suit.

“...Seto?”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“Sorry…. Do you want me to stop?”

Atem withdraws his hand, but Seto takes it in his, weaving their fingers. “No, it’s okay. I just have something on my mind.”

“Oh.”

A squeeze on his hand, and Atem lays his head snugly on Seto’s shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Atem strokes a thumb along Seto’s hand. “...Okay.”

Seto feels guilty for being so cold. He rests his head over Atem’s. 

“Not right now,” he amends. “Maybe later.”

“...Would you rather I go back to the apartment tonight?”

“No.”

_ I want you here. I want you, period. I’d hate myself if I turned you away now. _

Content with that answer, Atem closes his eyes and is quiet for the rest of the drive. Seto can’t tell if he’s sleeping or just thinking deeply. 

It must have been the latter, because Atem is perfectly alert when Isono kills the engine in the garage. He holds Seto’s hand as they head inside, and loiters nearby while Seto thanks Isono and dismisses him for the night.

He addresses them as “sirs” before leaving, and Seto is once again struck with that strange domestic feeling.

...And then it’s just the two of them.

With the manor all to themselves.

“So,” Atem breaks the silence first. “I assume I’ll be sleeping in that guest room?”

Seto nods absently. “Mhm.”

“Would you mind showing me where it is, again?” Atem is pinning him down with  _ that look.  _ There’s no mischief this time; just a crosshair of desire trained solely on Seto. “I forgot.”

He didn’t forget.

“Of course.”

Seto offers his arm, and Atem readily takes it.

A quiet walk through the night-lit manor brings them to the only bedroom with an open door and a light—a bedside lamp left on, illuminating the small stack of Atem’s street clothes, clean and folded on top of the sheets.

When Seto works up the nerve to look over, Atem is already watching him, eyes heavy with a very particular purpose.

“Seto.”

His name, invoked like something holy. The hot, coiling tension in his core reanimates. “...Yes?”

Dilated eyes search his face. “May I kiss you again?”

Seto leans in, willingly hypnotized. “Yes.”

He expects a riptide of unhindered lust to drag him under, but instead, Atem’s lips lap at his like the softest foam on the sand. He guides them, step by step, into the room, and Seto goes out of his way to shut the door and lock it.

Safe.

Private.

_ Finally. _

Atem is already shrugging out of his suit jacket, nibbling at Seto’s jaw. He doesn’t seem willing to stray much lower, after Seto rejected his advance on the balcony. The thought makes his heart sink guiltily. Every wayward kiss felt  _ amazing,  _ and if he weren’t so wary about his scars, he’d have let Atem lick him from head to heel, right there under the ivy.

“Want to get more comfortable?” Atem asks gently, popping open the buttons on his vest. 

It takes Seto a moment to respond—Atem exposes his collarbone by dislodging his tie, and the sight is  _ very  _ distracting.

He manages a quick nod and fumbles with his own jacket, cheeks burning and eyes pointed straight down. Atem’s hands appear in his vision, and take over for him, making quick work of each fastening, slipping small, soothing kisses over his face.

“So nervous,” Atem whispers against his mouth. “Is this okay?”

“ _ Yes,”  _ Seto insists, stripping down to his shirt and tie, craning Atem’s neck in a more heated kiss. “Don’t back out on me now, Atem.”

A light, handsome laugh vibrates against his lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it,  _ habiibii~.” _

Seto tilts his head at the unfamiliar word. “What does that mean?”

Atem actually  _ blushes.  _ Shyly answers, “‘My love.’”

_ Love? _

The energy spikes between them, Atem discarding his shirt while Seto explores the shell of his ear. For a beautiful moment, all time stops. Seto drinks in the sight of Atem’s newly-exposed skin, slides hungry hands down planes of healthy muscle. He spies a small beauty mark just above Atem’s heart, and is quick to bend down and press his lips to it. He trails kisses all the way up, interrupting Atem’s quiet moan with a lip lock. 

They each step right out of their shoes, drifting across the room in their growing intimacy.

Atem’s predatory growl rumbles against his skin, and next he knows, the man has a grip on his tie and an impish smirk on his face.

“The best thing about a sharp-dressed man,” he purrs, “is getting to strip him down~.”

He tries to draw Seto down by the tie, and Seto knows it’s just a flirt, but he can’t quell the panic that hits him like a headrush.

_ “It won’t hurt if you don’t move.”  _

_ Lashed to his desk in the long hours of the night, eyes burning out under a single incandescent lamp.  _

_ The occasional angry yank on his lead, leather biting his throat and choking him— _

He wrests the tie from Atem’s hands and staggers back, gasping, “ _ Don’t do that.” _

Atem stares at him, shocked and concerned. “Seto—?”

“Please don’t do that,” Seto repeats shakily. He wants nothing more than to rip the tie off, but his nerves are shot and he can’t make any headway with the knot. “I’m sorry, just— _ agh!  _ Damn it!”

“No, no….” Atem approaches him carefully, reaching out to calm Seto’s trembling hands. “ _ I’m  _ sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Seto  _ really  _ needs this tie off, but Atem is holding his hands and stroking his knuckles. “I just can’t….” He holds his tongue and waits for Atem to get fed up and leave. 

But no such thing happens. Atem kisses each of his hands and lets them go, craning to meet Seto’s gaze and sparing him a merciful smile. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I won’t do it again. Here.”

He takes care of Seto’s tie with delicate precision, and as the garment hits the floor, Seto feels he can breathe again.

And Atem is still grinning. 

Still here.

Still half-naked.

Seto takes that as a very good sign, and rests his arms around Atem’s shoulders. “Thank you. Where were we?”

Atem licks his lips and gives him a hard shove—sprawling Seto out on the bed. Before Seto can react, Atem is charging after him, settling flush between his thighs and leaning over him, swiftly claiming the most dominant position. He gives a hard, dry thrust, and Seto falls apart beneath him: letting out a high, helpless moan and gripping the sheets for anchor.

“Right here~.”

“Ah...Atem…!”

More thrusts—a fast and starving pace that ruthlessly drives their cocks together. Atem shifts, and Seto can feel that fearless erection rutting against his ass. He hooks his hands over Atem’s shoulders, nails crawling down his back and pulling in time with every thrust.

Seto feels his mind going blank, his entire consciousness receding until all he can register is Atem’s heat and weight against him, the slick slide of Atem’s mouth latching onto his neck, rooting and teasing with teeth.

He even forgets about exposing his scars—right up until Atem starts moving down his body and tugging at the buttons of his dress shirt.

“Wait,” he gasps, clutching his shirt collar closed. “I-I don’t know if I can….”

“Shh….” Atem kisses his nose and smiles. “Keep it on. It looks good on you~.”

He drops kisses down the fabric, and the gentle pressure is enough to make Seto squirm. He stops at Seto’s waist. “What about these?”

All Seto can do is nod and lift his hips for Atem, who beams and eagerly unzips him.

Atem doesn’t stop there; without missing a beat, he wrestles the dress slacks clean off Seto’s legs, and the sudden exposure makes him yelp.

A smiling kiss against his knee. Atem calls him “cute,” then returns his full attention to the hardness between Seto’s legs, the blatant bulge in his underwear. He gasps in awe, leaning in and tracing Seto’s clothed sex with a finger.

“Seto, you’re  _ drenched.” _

“Shut...up….” Seto gulps down a whimper at the teasing stimulation, fights the urge to buck recklessly into Atem’s touch.

Atem takes no offense, and without warning, wraps his mouth over the bulge and mouths him lusciously through the cloth, breathing deeply and exhaling in a long hum.

“ _ Hah~!”  _ Seto jackknifes at the surge of pleasure, crying out and clenching his thighs around Atem’s head. 

The most degrading sounds are pouring out of him as Atem works against his most sensitive flesh. He feels the wet pressure of Atem’s tongue against him, and the sensation leaves him panting. 

“ _ Yes,  _ yes, yes! Atem! Please.  _ More.” _

Atem shushes him sweetly, fingers curling under the waistband of his only protection. Tugs until Seto’s excited cock pops free, and bites his lip like he could salivate at the sight of it.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the day we met.”

“Do…?” 

Before his very eyes, Atem—gorgeous, talented,  _ passionate  _ Atem—plunges his mouth down around Seto’s cock, swallowing him in one fell swoop. 

Seto’s voice cracks halfway through his scream, lost in disorienting pleasure. He claws blindly at Atem’s hair, jerking his hips and curling in on himself. But Atem doesn’t falter, not even for a second. He pulls off with a filthy sound, and groans his reverence. 

“ _ God,  _ you’re as perfect as I imagined….”

He doesn’t give Seto a chance to breathe, let alone question him—that mouth is sinking around him once more, and he can feel that flirtatious tongue laving along his shaft. Atem bobs and pumps his length, his lusty humming sending unbearable vibrations through Seto’s skin. One of his hands burrows beneath the bunched fabric to palm and pleasure the rest of him.

A finger finds its way to his untouched entrance, and Seto  _ flails. _

“ _ Atem!  _ Atem, wait—!”

Atem pulls off and proceeds to drag sloppy kisses along his length. “Shh…. I’ll go slow, okay?”

When Seto continues to whimper uncertainly, he retracts his finger. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“No, no….” Seto nibbles on his knuckle and stares at the ceiling. “It’s just new...and strange.” He casts a look down his body, pleading with the man between his legs. “But please, don’t stop.”

“New?” Atem reduces his ministrations so a slow, gentle stroke of his hand, giving Seto’s sensitive shaft constant attention. “Have you never…?”

Seto blushes and looks back up at the ceiling. “Of course not!”

“Why not?” Atem asks, and his curiosity is as genuine as everything else he does. “It feels  _ incredible.” _

Seto inhales sharply. Nearly loses his composure over the image of Atem working himself open with a toy, writhing and whining with pleasure. But then a thought startles him: maybe Atem isn’t referring to  _ toys. _

He swallows thickly. “You...do this a lot, then?”

“Hm?” Atem kisses the flushed tip of Seto’s cock and continues to gently curl his fingers over its length. “Oh, no. Not unless you count... _ solo performances.”  _ He chuckles good-naturedly. “In which case, yes: I do this a lot~.” He winks and presses his thumb to Seto’s slit, making him buck. “Especially when I think of  _ you.” _

“What?”

Atem balances on his knees and pulls Seto’s underwear completely off. 

“Come here,” he beckons, and to Seto’s confusion, he actually crawls down off the edge of the bed. 

Seto inches forward—squeaks when Atem grabs his ankles and hauls him to the very edge.

“Sit here for me. It’ll make this easier.”

Seto sits up warily, letting his bare legs hang off the bed. Atem kneels between his thighs, urges him forward bit by bit until he’s positioned perfectly.

“What are you going to do…?”

Instead of responding, Atem reaches into his own lap, undoing his pants and freeing a cock that makes Seto’s pulse jump. It suddenly feels too vulnerable having his legs open and his intimacy exposed.

Before he can stop himself, Seto croaks, “You weren’t kidding about being  _ gifted.” _

Atem flashes a roguish smile and gives himself a long, leisurely stroke. “Like what you see~?”

Yes.

_ Very much. _

But the thought of  _ that  _ going  _ inside him  _ is enough to give him pause. Seto startles when Atem moves closer, slams his legs shut and curls them into his chest.

“Isn’t this a little fast?”

Calming kisses on his feet and ankles.

“We don’t have to go that far,” Atem consoles him. His breath quickens, and Seto realizes that one of his hands is still  _ occupied.  _ “I just couldn’t wait.” A shuddering breath. “You are...the  _ hottest  _ thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh….”

His free hand rubs along Seto’s calf, eyes pouring into him with liquid adoration. “ _ Habiibii,”  _ he croons sweetly. “Let me taste you again…. Please~?”

Seto nods automatically and lets Atem slip back between his trembling legs. 

And then that mouth is on him again, around him, gulping him down and lavishing him in torturous wet heat. All the while, he can see the quick, rigid motions of Atem’s arm, can feel the stimulated grunts and groans in Atem’s throat.

Knowing that this incredible man is getting off to  _ his  _ pleasure—

“Hah...hah-ah-ah— _ ahn!”  _ Seto can barely catch his breath, panting heavier and heavier with every loving touch, every hum, every flick of delectable tongue. He rests a leg on Atem’s shoulder, the other bending in the air, fine-tuning the angle  _ just right  _ and keening at the result. His arms are quaking too much to bear his weight—he collapses onto his back and ruts right up into Atem’s mouth.

He hears Atem gag.

“ _ Shit,  _ sorry!”

Atem pulls off and clears his throat, working Seto’s shaft with his hand while his breath evens out. “It’s okay, it’s okay~.” And he’s smiling so warmly that it must be true. “Does it feel good?”

“ _ Fuck yes,”  _ Seto gasps and drops his head, fingers tearing at the sheets beneath him. “I think...I think I’m close….”

“Oh~?” Atem kisses down below his sex, and Seto hiccups when warm, moistened lips reach his southern star. A deep voice practically melting against his tender skin, “Do you want to  _ cum,  _ Seto~?”

Seto gnaws his lip and nods his head frantically. “Yes! Yes….”

He nearly sobs when Atem licks his entrance and tells him to “ _ Beg  _ for it~.”

He’s hurled back to the shower he took earlier today— _ just today? It feels like a lifetime ago!— _ where he came, panting shamelessly for an imaginary Atem to fuck him  _ blind.  _ The Atem in his fantasy had forced him to beg too. Is there any way the real Atem knows—?

“Ohh,  _ fuck!”  _

Seto can’t be sure, winded with pleasure and staring blearily at the ceiling, but he’s confident Atem just drove that troublesome tongue inside him. Squelching and strange, hot and intrusive— _ extraordinary. _ The sensation makes him thrash where he lies, thighs jumping and scrambling on either side of Atem’s head. 

Something solid teases his rim, and swiftly replaces the tongue wriggling inside him, piercing deeper and harder and  _ damn everything  _ it feels good. There’s a slight drag. A pinch. A negligible pain that fades under a wave of dizzying arousal.

Then Atem is devouring him again, his finger gently teasing and twisting in that tight, unexplored ring, and Seto is  _ losing his mind. _

“Feels good... _ feels good!”  _ He scrambles to bury his fingers in Atem’s hair, bucking his hips and shaking violently. “Please, please,  _ please!  _ Atem! I want... _ hng!  _ I want…!”

Building, burgeoning, threatening to consume him whole. 

“ _ I want to cum!” _

Atem sucks hard. His finger curls in deeper. He huffs through his nose as his own pleasure rises and sharpens.

“Let me cum, Atem. Please...please…. Let me….” 

Seto knocks his heels against Atem’s back, pulling him in hard, thrusting raggedly between those stretched lips, clenching on that bold finger.

He’s falling apart inside and out, but Seto needs some kind of permission.

He needs to know that the dream won’t shatter when he lets go.

His lip trembles and he can barely breathe. He raises his head and catches those intelligent eyes watching him, dark with lust. 

Seto speaks through the loud, roaring blush in his face. “Please, Atem…. Tell…Tell me I can….”

Atem’s eyes smile, and when he pulls off to speak, he sounds as far-gone as Seto feels. He licks a small drip of precum from the corner of his mouth and says something in Arabic.

“What?”

“ _ Surrender, my love,”  _ he translates. “Let it take you. Come undone.” He swirls his tongue up the side of Seto’s shaft. “Cum for me, Seto. I want...to see you— _ ahh~!” _

He drops his head for a moment, overwhelmed, shoulders heaving. 

He must be close too.

But Seto doesn’t last another minute with Atem wrapped around his cock. He tries to give some warning: broken rasps of “I’m gonna— _ I’m gonna cum”  _ mixed with yowls of Atem’s name and tugs on Atem’s hair.

Seto blacks out when it hits. Kicks and convulses as the orgasm ravages his every muscle, suffocates his head, has him screaming until he’s hoarse, all while Atem locks him down by the hips. 

He comes down—slowly, from a great, depressurized height, and becomes dimly aware of the fact that Atem is still suckling at his shaft. 

Did he…?

_ Did he not pull off? _

Seto struggles to sit up, managing to prop himself on shaking arms to get a better view. 

Atem’s eyes are closed in bliss, and the sound of swallowing, gulping down something thick and plentiful, rings in Seto’s ears. 

He gapes in horror.

“A-Atem!”

The man regards him with smiling eyes, then winks and returns to his task.

Seto chokes down an embarrassed scream, flopping back onto the bed and covering his face. 

“That’s disgusting,” he groans, interrupted by an aftershock that makes him twitch. In the aftermath of his climax, Atem’s ministrations feel soothing and warm, and despite what he says, Seto finds the whole scene painfully arousing. His body seizes of its own accord, emptying one last load down Atem’s throat.

He finally pulls off, swallowing audibly, and Seto is mortified to see his own spend leaking down Atem’s chin like milk. He splutters and hides behind his hands again. 

“Stop smirking! That’s so gross….”

“I think it’s hot.” Atem shrugs, wiping his mouth with his thumb. He climbs back up onto the bed and straddles Seto’s hips.

“You are  _ not  _ kissing me like that.”

“Wanna bet~?”

“ _ Don’t you dare.” _

Atem leans into him, sealing his lips to Seto’s in a filthy kiss.

Seto squirms indignantly, warbling as that briny, bodily taste seeps into his mouth. He can taste Atem underneath it, and ultimately relents, letting the kiss fall deep and slow, reluctantly swallowing the spit and spend from Atem’s tongue. 

Something jams against his stomach.

He angles his lips free. “Are you...ah...hard again?”

“Again?” Atem chuckles thinly. “Try  _ still.” _

“Oh!” Seto scrambles, blushing with shame. 

Of course Atem hasn’t finished yet! How could he be so careless? So inattentive?

So  _ selfish? _

Damn it, he must be blowing this.

“I’m so sorry. Let me….” He tries to take action, but has no idea what he should even do. Should he touch Atem? Does Atem even want to be touched?

He’s never considered his lack of experience a particular disadvantage; but he can’t help feeling naive and small in this moment, spread out beneath the most incredible person he’s ever met—the only one he’s ever felt well and truly  _ attracted _ to—without half a clue of how to satisfy him.

He blushes so hard it makes him dizzy, eyes only barely able to face Atem on top of him. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Atem sits back on his haunches, still achingly hard, and somehow looking more love-besotted than disappointed or angry.

Seto reaches for him limply, but Atem is already sliding off the bed.

“Atem, wait—!”

“Shh~.” 

He bends down and lays sweet kisses across Seto’s face, smiling with unbearable warmth and sympathy.

“I know this is all new for you,” he murmurs. “And I know it can be...a lot. You don’t have to do anything for me. I’m already over the moon~.”

Seto keeps glancing guiltily at that proud, unattended erection. “But you’re….”

“ _ Over the moon,”  _ Atem repeats firmly. “So don’t fret~.” He pushes Seto down by the chest, tender lips against his temple. “We should get to bed soon anyway. We have a lot of rehearsing to catch up on tomorrow.”

Atem ambles toward the bathroom—no doubt to take care of what Seto couldn’t. 

Seto watches him, dumbstruck.

“You...really care about  _ Battaglia,  _ don’t you?”

Atem stops and turns, blinking at him and grinning so sincerely that it makes Seto’s heart ache. “Of course I do! It’s an incredible piece, and I’m honored to help you bring it to life.”

He turns to leave, but Seto is already mobile: practically flying from the bed to Atem’s side. He grabs Atem’s arm and backs him into the bathroom door, making it rattle.

“ _ Hck!  _ Kaiba?!”

Seto trembles with the urge to kiss him hard, and indulges it—pinning him by the arms and storming his mouth with ravenous abandon. Atem moans and succumbs, palming his chest and yielding pliantly to Seto’s every move. After a long, sweltering minute, he wrenches free for air. Stares up at Seto with hazy eyes.

“Where did that come from…?”

“Don’t insult me, Atem,” Seto growls, holding his gaze fiercely and squeezing his arms, anxious over what he’s about to do, but hell-bound to prove that he can do it. “There are no  _ solo pieces  _ in tonight’s performance.”

Atem gapes, but Seto doesn’t give him a chance to respond. He buries his lips in the crook of Atem’s neck and heads south, sinking to his knees, feeling that erect cock bumping against his jaw. He glances up to see Atem reduced to a panting mess, leaning heavily into the door with his eyes screwed shut.

“Kaiba—,”

“Seto.”

A strangled moan. “ _ Seto,  _ love, you really don’t have to— _ ah~!” _

The way Seto sees it, if he wants to  _ give  _ as well as Atem did, he should try and imitate Atem’s  _ technique.  _

Starting with a mouthful of that intimidating shaft. 

It doesn’t go as smoothly as when Atem did it, but if Atem’s surprised whine is any indication, it still feels perfectly good. Seto doesn’t make it very far before he’s gagging and really testing the ductility of his lips. 

Atem stops him gently by the hair. “Try— _ ah— _ breathing through your nose.”

Seto does just that, and it helps; but he still can’t worm his way any farther down the girth of Atem’s cock. He pulls off and lays a trail of kisses along the shaft, knowing that each touch is a damnable tease. He wraps Atem up in his fist as he does this, and lays a hand against the man’s hip so he can feel every enamored buck of his body.

He hums, long and low into the sensitive flesh, feels Atem’s hands crawling through his hair. 

He licks, dragging his tongue all the way up to the head, where he gives Atem shy, kittenish laps before sucking the tip into his mouth. Pumps the parts he can’t reach, ends up pushing Atem’s clothes down his thighs so his fingers can explore the rest of his sex. Atem fusses to step out of his pants completely, and Seto is thoughtful enough to cast them aside. 

Atem rambles in rushed and messy Arabic, knocks his head against the door, hooks a leg over Seto’s shoulder to further expose himself. Lets out a screaming moan when Seto’s fingertip finds the tight little bullseye between his cheeks. 

Seto is just starting to press inside, marveling at how easily Atem’s body accepts the intrusion, when desperate hands start groping at his face, shoving his hair aside, and a frazzled Atem starts imploring him to “Look at me,  _ habiibii.  _ Look at me. Please,  _ please!” _

Still cradling Atem’s head in his mouth and attending his sex with eager hands, Seto flicks his eyes upward, quickly latching onto Atem’s fatally flushed cheeks, his lust-flooded gaze.

He sees Atem’s jaw _ drop _ , feels his entire body jitter with something raw and unstoppable. A hard yank in his hair, a solid thrust between his lips, jamming his throat.

And then his mouth is full. 

Full of that briny, bodily taste. A slick, salacious liquid erupting behind his teeth, assaulting his senses.

Atem’s tastes somehow different. A neighboring shade of the same erotic color. 

Seto chokes.

Tries valiantly to drink it down the way Atem did—but his throat stays frozen, refuses to work the flood of foreign liquid into his system.

He falls off Atem’s cock, coughing, sputtering up fresh semen that drizzles rapidly over his chin. He feels it raining over his chest, then suddenly his cheeks, his nose, dangerously close to his eyes. 

He realizes all at once that Atem is still releasing, and without Seto’s mouth to catch it….

He grunts and shuts his eyes, barely daring to breathe as he’s soaked in seed, hearing Atem gasp and groan in time with each spurt. 

When he opens his eyes, Atem’s legs are shuddering and giving out beneath him—he collapses against the door, breathing hard. Slowly wrangles his senses and focuses his attention on Seto. His eyes snap wide, slapping a hand over his mouth.

His first apology comes out muffled.

“I am... _ so  _ sorry.”

He fidgets like he doesn’t know what to do, and admittedly, Seto doesn’t know either. He can hardly move without exacerbating the viscous, sticky mess spattered all over him. 

After a drawn out, exceptionally awkward silence, Seto manages, “Please tell me it’s not in my hair.”

Atem’s skin is nearly purple with embarrassment when he hesitantly leans forward and picks at Seto’s bangs. 

“I, uh. I don’t think so.”

Seto nods and looks down himself. Remembers, unhappily, that he never took off his bespoke dress shirt. “...At least there’s that.”

“Seto, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean—,”

“It’s okay.”

And it is.

Seto automatically peels out of the shirt, relieving some of the filthy feeling. Thinks  _ screw it  _ and wipes down his face with the expensive fabric before tossing it aside. Atem is still fretting before him, and he doesn’t like it, so he takes the man’s arms and draws him in close, tipping back and sprawling along the floor. Atem settles carefully on top of him, legs slotted and sexes pressed together in neutral comfort.

He decides that lying naked and tangled with Atem in his arms might be the best part of this entire night. 

They lie there for a while, simply existing together. Seto’s always thought the phrase  _ post-coital glow  _ was a sappy embellishment; but he has to admit that he feels lighter and warmer and so beautifully blissed out that the sentiment must be true.

Seto plays softly with the stiff hairs at the nape of Atem’s neck. Licks his lips in thought, wonders how long they’ll taste like sex.

Atem is tracing meaningless shapes on his shoulder with a soft finger, head nestled neatly against his neck, breath coming in gentle waves against his skin.

“Seto?”

“Hm?”

“...Is this why you didn’t want to take off your shirt?”

Seto’s blood runs cold. His grip on Atem tightens reflexively.

_ Shit. _

He can feel Atem’s finger straying up to the base of his neck, drawing a long line across the shape of his throat. Seto cringes, but is too terrified to move. It’s all he can do to force breath through his lungs, ignoring the heat behind his eyes and trying not to panic.

Thoughts start colliding horribly in his head—things he could say or do, ways he could try to escape, to brush it all off, to send Atem away. A thousand worst-case scenarios wreaking havoc on his nerves.

He finds he can’t really speak, certainly can’t move.

So he waits.

Lies there beneath Atem and waits for everything to finally fall apart.

That’s when a different touch graces his neck. Softer, warmer, a bit balmy.

He recognizes it as a kiss.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounds thin and scared. At this point, he can’t help it. “Atem?”

“Proving a point,” Atem replies evenly. He lifts his head and sticks Seto with a determined look. “Because I promise: whatever you’re afraid of will not come to pass.”

“What?!”

Atem ignores his reaction and shifts around, seeking out the next nearest scar—a thick old welt where Gozaburo’s crop once caught him in the shoulder—and lays a kiss to it. Next, he finds the round, beveled burn on Seto’s forearm, left by a Cuban cigar. He kisses that, too. Works his way down Seto’s torso, thoroughly hunting down every awful mark and kissing it as sweetly as he kissed Seto’s lips.

The heat is still rising behind Seto’s eyes. “Atem, stop it….”

“No.”

He tries to wriggle out from under Atem’s scalding attention, but the man stays sturdy on top of him. 

Atem looks up again, raw emotion saturating his gaze. “I need you to believe me when I say that you are the most  _ beautiful  _ thing I’ve ever seen.”

He smooths a palm around Seto’s waist, where the scars of scores of lashings are just peaking out from his back.

“...And I have never been more attracted to  _ anyone  _ than I am to you,  _ right now.”  _

Seto refuses to look at him. Refuses to look at anything. Lays an arm over his eyes as if he can possibly push the tears back into his head. Bites hard on his lip to stop its trembling. 

“Will you turn over for me, Seto?” Atem asks, gently feeling out the scarred ridges past his waist.

_ Yes. _

All the better for hiding his wet eyes and reddened face.

He rolls over quickly, welcoming the shelter of his head hidden in his arms.

Atem sucks in a sharp breath.

Seto’s shoulders twitch.

_ “On your stomach.” _

_ Nose crushed against the music room’s linoleum, hands braced behind his head. His own shirt piled on the floor beside him, a chill seeping through his bare skin. _

_ “I do not pay the world’s finest instructors to fly out here, just so a little brat can give them lip.” _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ The crop glances off the floor beside him, startles him horribly. _

_ “So the next time they tell you to do something, you damn well better do it.” _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ Another warning strike. He’s thankful that Mokuba’s on the other side of the manor with his own tutors.  _

_ He’ll try to be quiet this time. _

_ “And be grateful this isn’t a cane. A cane would snap that weak spine of yours like a twig.” _

_ “...Yes, sir.” _

_ And down came the crop— _

Seto flinches hard and lets out a small cry when something touches his back; but it’s just Atem’s warm and loving lips, pecking from one end of his ribs to the other, up his spine, across his shoulder blades.

“...I don’t suppose whoever did this to you is still alive?”

“No?”

“ _ Damn.  _ I would’ve  _ loved  _ to break his neck.”

Atem’s vengeful tone sends a shiver through Seto’s skin. All this time, he’s never once thought such a talented, compassionate man to be capable of violence, or even outright hostility.

It’s frightening. 

And Seto Kaiba doesn’t scare easily.

But Atem is being malicious on his behalf, and it gives him a surreal sense of comfort and safety.

“Well, don’t worry,” he says dryly, scrubbing the damp streaks from his face and glaring at the carpet. “The pavement took care of that years ago.”

There’s a heavy pause, then Atem is unfolding himself over Seto’s back, rubbing his sides and resting lips in his hair.

“...I see. ...Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, not really.” The tears have reached his nose, and he can’t stop himself from sniffling pitifully into his arms.

“Okay.” Atem kisses the lobe of his ear, and Seto can’t believe how  _ relieved  _ he is that Atem isn’t going to pry. Instead he simply lies with Seto and strokes his hair, cultivating a comfortable mood until Seto starts to squirm, feeling too disgusting to relax.

“Do you want to take a shower with me?” He blurts, feeling  _ way  _ too at ease in this man’s presence. “Er, just to save time and water, I mean.”

Hearing Atem’s good-natured chuckle makes the world feel right again, like they dove through some deep and horrific waters, only to come out on the other side unscathed.

And together.

“I’d love to~.”


	19. Affettuoso - With Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.”  
> A. A. Milne, ‘Winnie-the-Pooh #1’

-

Chapter 19

Affettuoso

_ With Feeling _

-

Seto hasn’t shared a bath with anyone since his mother died. Not in the close, communal way of families and friends. The children shared facilities in the orphanage, but he doesn’t count that. Not when so many of the other kids were at his and Mokuba’s throats half the time. 

After their adoption, they spent most of their time separated, and moments for bonding were painfully few and far between. When Gozaburo died, when they more or less had their freedom back, their dynamic had been irreparably changed, with Seto forgoing several intimacies just to keep his past trapped firmly behind him.

Tonight broke that long and lonely streak.

Tonight, he invited Atem to come upstairs and join him in the master bathroom. Tonight, he felt a pair of loving hands sliding over his skin with the water. Tonight, he ran his fingers through Atem’s hair, just as he did before the gala, and once again Atem moaned his pleasure, purring and preening like a cat.

Tonight he filled his soaking tub for the first time in  _ ages,  _ and allowed Atem to sink in with him.

“I love these,” Atem sighs, head lolling lazily on Seto’s shoulder. 

Seto stretches his arms along the rim of the tub, lets his own head fall back, feels his muscles finally unwinding. “I almost never have time to use it these days. It’s not even worth keeping it filled.”

“That’s a shame.” Atem plays softly with the steaming surface of the water, curled up snugly between Seto’s legs. “It’s really nice….”

“Mn.”

Warm, balmy air, sweet with silence and the small, intimate plunking and shifting of the water. Seto closes his eyes. Breathes deeply as Atem shifts minutely against him, exploring the water in his own quiet, thoughtful way.

After a long, tranquil spell, Atem’s voice rouses Seto from the brink of a shallow sleep, “Seto? There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Seto grumbles drowsily in affirmation.

“Why did you write  _ Battaglia?” _

“‘Why?’”

“I mean: what inspired it?” Atem struggles to turn and face him, craning his head over his shoulder. “Did it just...come to you in a dream, or what? What was the motivation behind it?”

“Oh.”

That’s a fairly straightforward question, which is good because the groggy weight in his head is getting harder and harder to shake. 

“I enjoy a good game,” he begins, stopping briefly to yawn into the back of his hand. “But I’ve almost always been stuck playing simple, boring games against simple, boring people.” 

He shifts and rests his cheek on Atem’s head, hands dangling into the water, fingers disturbing the surface with small motions. 

“I’ve always longed for higher stakes and worthy adversaries, but—,”

“Let me guess,” Atem injects snarkily. “No one on Earth holds a candle to your dazzling brilliance, and you, the poor, rejected genius that you are, are left all alone without any proper playthings to entertain you. Is that about right?”

Seto pushes his tongue against his cheek for a long moment, neck and ears growing hot. 

“... _ Listen—,” _

Atem erupts with laughter, sinking deeper into the water and vibrating against Seto’s stomach. 

Seto blushes deeply and grips the rim of the tub. “ _ Anyway _ , _ ”  _ he pushes forward, “to answer your question:  _ La Strada della Battaglia  _ is simply an homage to the beauty of a good challenge.”

“Between two gods.”

“Yes.”

“Because you fancy yourself a god, and any ‘worthy’ adversary of yours would have to be  _ godlike  _ too.”

Before Seto can rebut, Atem is squirming some more, flipping onto his stomach and curling his legs to fit inside the tub. Water sloshes heavily, spills out onto the floor with a loud  _ splat _ . He holds himself up by Seto’s shoulders, incisive eyes smirking up at him. 

“Are you the sun god, or the moon god? My money’s on the moon.”

Seto glares down at him, arms still braced on the rim. “Do you  _ ever  _ stop talking?”

“Am I wrong?”

“ _ Tch.”  _ Seto turns his head in a huff, face burning. He purses his lips. Refuses to embarrass himself further.

A few small kisses land on the dampened skin of his chest. 

“Sorry,” Atem hums. “You’re just so  _ cute  _ when I beat you to the punch~.”

Seto nearly chokes on his own breath. 

“ _ Okay,”  _ he hisses. “That’s enough. It’s late. Let’s get out.”

“What’s your favorite game?”

“What?”

Seto steps out first, then reflexively offers Atem a hand.

“Your favorite game,” Atem repeats. He slips on one of the steps, and Seto catches him, gathers Atem quickly to his chest to stabilize him.

“Chess. It’s only as interesting as your opponent is clever, but a good game can last for  _ hours  _ and anything can happen.”

Atem giggles and taps his fingers across Seto’s chest. “Not unlike sex~.”

“ _ Hck!” _

Seto goes beet red and puts some space between them, pulling towels off the rack and hurling one at Atem.

“We should play sometime,” Atem says brightly, hugging the towel in his arms.

“You play?”

“Mhm~.”

Seto would be lying if he said that didn’t arouse him a bit. Atem is sharp, and has proven unpredictable and tactful on multiple occasions. He’d pay money—maybe even blood—to see the man let loose in a game of elite strategy.

“...Okay.” He nods at the floor, feeling bare and shy despite their earlier engagement. “Sure.”

“Excellent~.”

As they’re toweling off, Atem complains that he’s too tired to return to the guest room—even for his clothes. 

...Which is how he ends up swaddled in one of Seto’s sleep shirts and helping himself to Seto’s bed.

The man sprawls and stretches on the bedding with a long, luxurious moan, black Egyptian cotton riding up his thighs, damp hair curling attractively around his face. Even with all the buttons done up, the collar exposes nearly half his chest, and the way he curves himself artfully across the bed conjures up less-than innocent thoughts.

Seto wets his lips and reminds himself that he’s too tired for another round of sex.

“ _ Ohh~  _ I could get used to this….”

“I’m sure you could. Move over.”

Atem doesn’t exactly make room for him, though he does let Seto nudge and roll him out of the way as he climbs under the covers—not unlike a lazy cat being displaced. 

“Aren’t you going to get in?”

“Too warm….” Atem complains, draping himself over the covers Seto just settled under.

Seto doesn’t doubt it; the man feels like a small furnace lying on top of him. He rubs Atem’s back and reaches for a remote on the nightstand.

“Have it your way.”

Atem lifts his head. “What’s that?”

“This? It controls the lights—,”

Suddenly the remote is gone from his hand and Atem is sitting up, turning it over with interest. 

“What, too rich for a light switch?” Atem wrinkles his brow. “Why does it have so many buttons?”

“Because—,”

The room dims rapidly around them, then goes dark. He hears Atem press another button, bringing the overhead lights back. Brighter, brighter—until they glare white and they’re both squinting painfully.

“Why do you have fluorescent lights in your  _ bedroom?”  _ Atem whines, quickly dimming them back down.

Seto leaves his eyes covered, afraid of what Atem’s button-mashing will do to him next. “Fluorescent and incandescent light can be combined to imitate natural light. It makes for a better work space.”

“Are you too rich for  _ windows  _ too?”

“Do  _ you  _ go to bed at sunset? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

He hears Atem gasp with what sounds like delight. Lowers his arm to see the room drenched in deep blue light.

“They  _ change color?” _

Blue softens to violet, then heats up to a darkroom-red. He can see Atem biting his lip and curling his knees excitedly.

“Seto,  _ please  _ let me make love to you here.”

“ _ Ah—Atem!  _ It’s almost midnight,” Seto sputters, as if he doesn’t spend most nights working into the primordial hours of morning, as if something as minor as a  _ sleep schedule  _ is what makes him jumpy around Atem.

“No, no, not tonight. But next time….” He brings the lights down, letting soft silver light from the windows take over. Leans over Seto to toss the remote across the nightstand, then settles cozily at his side. He finds Seto’s cheek in the dark and brushes it with a gentle finger. “Er, if there even  _ is  _ a ‘next time.’ I don’t mean to obligate you,” he whispers. “Do you...think there’s going to be a next time?”

“That depends,” Seto finds himself whispering back, not really thinking before he speaks, drifting a bit too close to the edge of sleep. “How seriously are you taking this? I won’t waste my energy on someone fickle.”

Atem’s hand strokes slowly over his chest, and it’s enough to lull him to sleep; but then Atem is murmuring, just south of his ear, keeping him afloat a bit longer.

“Very seriously.” He says it with pure conviction, as if he wants the answer just as badly as Seto does. He softens and continues, “I...want to see you. Get to know you. ...Play more piano with you. More games. Go on more mall dates. Proper dates....”

“Mmm.”

Seto is barely conscious, the current of sleep washing over him, crushing him into comfortable oblivion. He faintly registers Atem’s lips on his jaw, the warm weight of an arm across his chest. 

Atem is still murmuring in his ear. 

“ _...I could fall…with you…. I think….already have….” _

He fights to wake up one last time, enough to roll onto his side, turning away from Atem and inching back, inviting the man to wrap around him.

Atem does just that, molding to Seto’s back and nuzzling the nape of his neck. 

“... _ Good night, habiibii….” _

-

One would think that after the day Seto Kaiba has had, he would be dead until morning; but he has no such luck tonight. 

When he wakes, the dream doesn’t dissipate as quickly as he would like. It clings to him, along with a thin sheet of sweat, drying cold and clammy on his skin. He drags in ragged breaths and struggles to seize his bearings. 

In his bedroom. Home. Safe. 

Sometime just before dawn. Still deep and dark outside. Moonlight subdued through the glass. 

Something shifts against him, makes him jump. 

A warm body curled up by his hip. 

Memories flood his head—the gala, the kisses, the messy and miraculous tryst in the guest room. Showering, bathing, rolling into bed together.

Atem.

His body temperature must have finally dropped, because now he’s buried deep in the bedding. The only evidence of his presence is a bushel of messy hair bunched against the pillow.

And his hand tangled in the hem of Seto’s shirt.

Without really thinking, he reaches down to stroke his hand through that wild hair, finding comfort in the soft, simple touch, in the company of a living, breathing person slumbering at his side. His fingers sneak down to find Atem’s neck, picking out the gentle thrumming of his pulse. He sets his breathing to it, its strong and quiet rhythm so reminiscent the metronomes he used to find solace in. 

He’s had bad dreams about performances before.

But this one was new.

_ A bastardized rendition of the university’s concert hall, warped and claustrophobic, painted in shifting, gory shades of red. Empty of a proper audience but somehow crowded with thousands of eyes. Phantasms that spill from the walls and flood the edges of the hall.  _

_ Ravenous. Waiting. _

_ Seto sits with perfect posture at his own piano, glistening blinding white in the harsh stage lights. Too bright. Almost sterile. It makes the ivory prisms of his transcendent tux jitter and dance. It’s nearly enough to wash away the hellish maw of the theater—but not quite. He can still feel the expectant gazes hanging on every scrap of his flesh. _

_ He can barely see the keys through the glaring light, has to trust his fingers to find their marks.  _

_ No sheet music to anchor him.  _

_ No instructor to guide him. _

_ No Atem. _

_ The thought hits him at a strange angle, like he can’t remember why Atem would even be here. Perhaps he’s just attending the performance, and Seto is anxious, failing to find him in the seats.  _

_ It still doesn’t feel right, but the show must go on; so Seto strikes the keys. _

_ Or tries to. _

_ No sound replies.  _

_ He presses them again. Realizes he’s playing the wrong chord.  _

_ Of course! How foolish. No wonder the piano is silent beneath his fingers. _

_ He stretches to hit the proper notes, but still the instrument is stoic. _

_ Murmurs. _

_ Hard judgments passed from mouth to mouth in a ripple of distaste. _

_ Seto searches the writhing audience for Atem, picks a face out among the twitching eyes. _

_ But it’s the wrong face. _

_ Heavy and loveless, glowering above a bloodied business suit. _

_ “Get on with it, boy!” _

_ “Yes, sir,” Seto quails, trying desperately to beat any kind of sound out of the piano. He panics, drowning in the horrendous silence while the eyes flutter and flick their disapproval.  _

_ Fleshy shadows are crawling over the stage lights, bleeding toward him, gluttonous tar devouring the light. _

_ “Atem? Atem!” The name dribbles from his lips in a desperate plea, fingers slamming hopelessly across the keyboard. _

_ “I’m here,  _ habiibii,”  _ comes that blessed voice, slipping into his head and pouring warmth down into his chest. He casts around, but can’t spot the speaker anywhere—not until he looks down. _

_ Atem is settled flush between his thighs, kneeling in the impossible space between the bench and the pedals. His eyes are closed in ravishment, and Seto’s cock is sunken deep inside his mouth.  _

_ Seto clutches the frame of the bench and pants the man’s name, the clothes evaporating from his skin. The blistering light threatens to burn him on the spot, but all he can do is curl his legs and lay himself back, reclining in the heavenly burn, held in place by Atem’s ministrations. _

_ When Atem looks at him, his gaze is alive with white fire, a celestial burn that outshines his eyes. A blazing crown of stars rises around his head, locks flittering like the tails of comets. Gold spills from his hairline, from his nape, drizzling glistening and molten over his dark skin. _

_ The Sun God gives him a wink. _

_ “I can’t do this without you,” Seto pleads, snapping up to see the eyes rolling viciously in their sockets, a chittering roar of rage tearing into his head. The shadows are slithering closer, the god’s light retreating dangerously from their venomous touch. _

_ “No! NO!” _

_ Extinguished. Gone from his sight. Shadows pooling at his ankles and Atem nowhere to be seen. Smoke roiling up around him, staining him with death. Ashes infiltrating his lungs. Skin tearing open as if lashed in a hundred places, smoldering as if burned in a hundred more. _

_ The heavy, loveless face is hanging over him, shoulders dripping with his blood. Around them the eyes spiral like hungry gears, grinding up spatters of liquid gold.  _

_ The blood of passion. _

_ The blood of the god. _

_ The loveless face rips open like a demon’s jaw, each fang a leather crop whipping and whirling, their concussive  _ snaps  _ shredding his ears.  _

He woke up in a raw, disoriented panic, trying to scream but only barely managing a hoarse gasp. 

Now, as the memory of the nightmare plagues him, he lowers his body under the covers, moving to wrap himself around Atem’s sleeping form. He basks in every sweet breath, every reassuring heartbeat. He presses a shaky kiss to Atem’s forehead, forcing himself to breathe.

Atem stirs in his arms, shuffles his face free of the sheets. “Mmph…. Seto…?”

“It’s okay,” Seto shushes. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm….”

Atem shakes his head with determination, but ultimately collapses back into the blankets, fast asleep. Seto spends a while longer beside him, dusting fingertips over the soft curve of Atem’s cheek, then carefully slides out of bed.

At first, he only plans to cool off in the sink; but by the time he’s patting his face dry, the thought of returning to bed has lost its appeal—even knowing that there’s a very warm, very  _ cuddly  _ Atem waiting for him.

No, when he’s this anxious, rest is not an option. He needs action. He needs productivity.

He needs to play. 

He hasn’t touched his piano all day, and it leaves his hands itching and empty. What’s more, ever since Atem stepped into the frame, his confidence in  _ Battaglia  _ has plummeted. When he recruited the man for his concert, he never imagined his own talents would be challenged, and certainly not with respect to his  _ magnum opus. _

He needs to play, he needs to think. He needs to descend from the celestial cloud Atem’s held him captive on for the past several hours. 

Reality is waiting.

Seto kills the lights and treads silently out to the hallway, glancing back once more to check Atem’s shadow. Perfectly peaceful.

He doubts the music will wake him from three stories up. Pulls the door to and heads downstairs, mulling over what he should play.

-

_ A sea of spangled moonlight. _

_ Sand like stardust scattered along a deep-space shore. _

_ It flatters the creamy bright sheen of Seto’s skin, light littering him like whitecaps. Laurels of crystal shells shattered in his hair and blue eyes like a riptide that pulls and crashes endlessly on Atem’s heart, on hips that roll with the deep, dragging force of the waves. _

_ Atem kisses the salt from his neck and calls him ‘beautiful moon.’ _

_ Seto gasps back to him in fluent Arabic, embraces him in legs long and pale as moonbeams, arms dripping like sea foam around Atem’s shoulders.  _

_ ‘I love you, I love you,’ Atem intones, dawn breaking behind his eyes. Tears of golden ink on the silver, silken canvas of the god’s face. Hoary blue lips ripple with breathless smiles beneath him. _

_ ‘They’re watching us,’ Seto says. He pulls Atem inside, where the depths of his spirit run dark and silent, where the warmth of his body simmers, spattering the waves with bubbles and steam. ‘They’re watching us.’ _

_ ‘Who is watching us, my love?’ _

_ They were alone, and he was certain of it. But now lighthouse beams rake the horizons, cracking open the night in their search for lost ships.  _

_...Or perhaps something else. _

_ He holds Seto close, close enough to confuse skin for skin, breath for breath. Crashes into the intimate shore between his legs. ‘They won’t find us.’ _

_ ‘They already have.’ _

_ Search lights. Stage lights. Shifting sand marbles into an ice-cold floor, polished wood and stone. The sea bursts into waves as tall as mountains, black sheets of frigid water with millions of faces shuffling beneath the surface. Unblinking eyes, uncaring mouths, exhaling hideous winds of laughter. Atem is rooted to the spot, paralyzed. Petrified. Turning to stone even as he rests inside his lover. _

_ His partner. _

_ “Don’t get cold feet on me, Atem,” Kaiba says, and it’s his language again. His voice as Atem once heard it, crisp and clear of all cloudy passion and hissing tides.  _

_ Atem wants to respond, wants to swear on his soul that he won’t back down, won’t recoil, won’t retreat—but the waves are tipping forward, bowling down toward their little stretch of shore.  _

_ And Atem can’t move. _

_ He tries to push words from his throat, but they stay leaden within his flesh. Even his breath moves sluggish and unwilling from his lungs, and the weight of the world pins him to the sheets. _

_ Sheets? _

_ Where is he? _

Where is he?

Atem’s eyes open before he’s fully awake.

A dark world cleaved by distant moonlight. Warm. His body is deeply submerged in sheets, tangled and tucked beneath a blanket’s anchoring weight.

His senses return, and bring with them the memory of how he came to rest in someone else’s bed.

Kaiba.

_ Seto. _

_ I like it when you call me Seto. _

He claws his way out of the bedding, breathing in raw relief at the freedom of the cool air. Stares blearily into the shadows for a sign of Kaiba, even reaches out with his hand—but finds no one.

“Seto?”

Nothing.

Atem drops against the pillows. Finds the fuzzy digits on a backlit clock by the bed. Blinks them into focus.

02:14

As he sits there, over-thinking the lateness of the hour in his foggy head, a thin, distant sound wheedles into the room. Inconsistent, varying in volume, coming and going but still so distinct—and yet he can’t quite place it.

It doesn’t exactly sound like the house settling, so Atem rolls his way off the bed, shimmying to straighten out his borrowed sleep shirt, and pads off to investigate.

To his sleepy dismay, the echo of his quarry leads him down the master staircase, the chilled marble steps jarring and unpleasant against bare feet.

“It’s two in the morning,” he whines to himself, rubbing the sand from his eyes as he passes the second floor.

He recognizes the sound now.

Either Kaiba is playing piano in the middle of the night, or they have a very talented intruder.

Atem pulls the sagging shirt collar back over his shoulder and drags his way to the music room, coming to slump against the doorframe with bedraggled hair in his eyes.

He yawns and rolls up one of his sleeves. “Kaiba, what the hell are you—?”

The question evaporates from his throat when he properly  _ hears  _ the music. 

And when he sees the way Kaiba looks while playing it.

Summer flowers. A meadow breeze. The Valley of the Sun God comes to life in the manor once again, with Kaiba as its passionate progenitor. There’s a motion in his body that Atem has never seen before, a rhythm that rocks and sways him elegantly on the bench. For the first time, the music truly seems to be pouring out of him, ravishing in the beautiful life he gives it. 

Atem stands mesmerized with his jaw hanging wide open, gripping the doorway for support, forgetting the cold linoleum biting his bare feet. 

It’s still Kaiba’s own version, but Atem is helplessly thrilled to hear aspects of the vivacious way he himself played it just a few days before. 

His heart pumps way out of time, an elated electricity rattling his body, an adrenaline he doesn’t know what to do with. He doesn’t dare disturb the rare and precious sight--this side of Seto Kaiba he’s only ever seen in passing, this side he could only ever sense, half-remembered like waking from a dream.

Yes, Atem thinks. That’s the perfect way to describe Seto Kaiba. A beautiful dream hidden protectively behind foggy memories and the cold hard light of day. 

He rubs his chest, absently trying to soothe the restless heart inside it.

When  _ Nella Valle  _ concludes, he starts raising his hands to applaud--but something in Kaiba’s body language gives him pause. 

There’s a rigidity there again. He flexes his fingers thoughtfully over the keys. Cracks a knuckle or two, the small sound popping sharply through the silence.

Atem folds his hands together silently and waits. 

...And as he suspected, Kaiba starts to play again.

Something delicate and small. Soft. Dark. Slow like a procession, but with more feeling than even  _ Nella Valle. _

It isn’t part of  _ Battaglia. _

Atem’s never heard this before.

Its sad and gossamer melody slips into his heart with surgical precision, then blossoms and weeps inside him. He hugs himself tight and listens.

Doesn’t just listen.

_ Feels.  _

Hungrily accepts every note Kaiba offers, lets them sink into his skin, warm and woeful as a lover’s farewell kiss. It gives him a feeling of hopeless drifting, a feeling of deathly silence, of aftermath, of mourning. Like walking through a field of fresh graves on the loveliest day of winter. Flurries of black snow.

Flurries of ash.

It makes his chest ache. Truly  _ ache.  _

Suddenly Kaiba feels so far away from him and straying farther, and the thought of losing him to this gorgeous melancholy spikes Atem’s blood with genuine fear.

Kaiba wrote this piece too, he’s certain of it.

And whatever part of him it came from must be hurting  _ horribly.  _

He thinks of the battlefield of scars entrenched in Kaiba’s skin, the skeletons he carries and keeps locked deep inside himself.

It isn’t a conscious decision in Atem’s mind to step forward, to move steadily but quietly toward the man at the piano; but his body slips into motion nonetheless. He waits for the piece to finish, for the somber-sweet note of finality to whisper away, leaving the room silent once more.

“Seto….”

It can’t be helped: Kaiba startles on the bench, whips around and sighs heavily at the sight of him. “ _ Fucking!  _ Atem, what are you doing up--?”

Atem props one knee on the bench and slides in close, draping his arms around Kaiba’s shoulders and kissing him with the weight of the world. 

Kaiba murmurs in soft confusion against his lips, but relents and returns the embrace.

When they part, Atem bores into those dusk-blue eyes with wonder, with raw adoration and unbearable fondness, seeing the complete picture of Seto Kaiba for the first time, and falling hopelessly in love with it.

“Play like that at the concert,” he breathes, cradling Kaiba in his hands. “And there won’t be a single heart in the building that doesn’t break for you.”


	20. Misterioso - Mysterious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mokuba takes his job very seriously!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late upload for chapter 20. Expect chapter 21 on time tonight!!

-

Chapter 20

Misterioso

_ Mysterious _

-

When Mokuba came home on Sunday, he wasn’t surprised to see Atem there, seated at his brother’s piano and playing a complex movement while Seto looked on in stoic approval. 

What did surprise him was the discovery that Atem was  _ still  _ there. From  _ Friday;  _ that Isono gave Atem a lift to and from his apartment so he could  _ gather his things;  _ that he’s apparently  _ living with them  _ until the concert  _ next weekend.  _

_ I was gone for two days! What dimension is this? _

Seto insists that it’s merely an arrangement of convenience, says they need to “maximize Atem’s availability” in the days leading up to the concert. “Yes, it’s unconventional,” he concedes, “but so are the circumstances.”

Right.

Bloviating that  _ might  _ have worked on a layperson, or any given idiot. 

But Mokuba is no idiot. And ironically, Seto is largely to blame for that.

He almost bought the story that Atem slept over Friday night because the gala ran late; but became instantly suspicious at the pink rush in his brother’s cheeks, and the way he closed his eyes and tilted his head when he spoke (a pretty obvious attempt at concealing his emotions, and one he’s always resorted to).

To reiterate: Mokuba is not an idiot.

And Seto is  _ not  _ just doing  _ business  _ with Atem.

He’s also confident they aren’t merely  _ fooling around  _ either. Seto doesn’t fool around. About anything. Especially not people.

Speaking of which, given his brother’s long-standing antisocial nature, Mokuba doesn’t really have a point of reference for what “Seto in Love” even looks like.

But he can hazard a guess. 

For example: Seto loves Mokuba _ ,  _ and mostly shows it through special treatment, through courtesies and confidence that most people don’t even think he’s capable of. 

So the first leg of Mokuba’s investigation is to see if Atem gets special treatment too. What exceptions is Seto making for  _ him? _

“Well, the fact that he’s allowed over here at all is a pretty big one,” he says, taking note in a cipher that he invented just for the occasion. “And Seto is performing a duet with him. That’s something he’s never done before.”

Isono fusses uselessly with a rack of spices on the kitchen island, over-straightening it for the millionth time. “Sir, if I may, I really don’t think this is appropriate….”

Mokuba makes another encrypted note about how important this composition is to his brother, how he wouldn’t share it with just anyone (he was almost too shy to share it with Mokuba!).

“Isono, when was the last time Seto made a friend?” He asks without looking up.

The man balks. “I, uh….”

“Exactly!” Mokuba slams his pen down on his notepad and stares wide-eyed at Isono. “This is a big deal! And it’s our job as his family to take it seriously. We need to figure out what makes Atem so special.”

_ And what he wants from Seto,  _ he adds darkly.

He’d say ‘money’ if he had to guess. Maybe even exposure and a coattail ride to fame? Seto did say the guy’s an amateur.

Mokuba gathers his pen up and chews on the clicker. 

...Or maybe he just wants Seto?

He won’t rule it out. Atem is a pretty nice guy. Smart, too. But lots of people are nice and smart, and Mokuba knows firsthand that they can’t all be trusted.

“Seto bought him a suit and took him to Pegasus’ gala. That’s not nothing.”

“Master Mokuba, for the sake of your brother’s privacy, I must object to—,”

“Have you noticed anything weird?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

Mokuba taps his pen in thought. “You picked them up from the gala, right? Were they acting strange?”

“I don’t believe so—,”

“Like, were they all over each other? Were they talking about money? Did Atem say anything suspicious?”

“I can’t recall—?”

“Did they make out on the ride home?”

Isono nearly hits the ceiling in his alarm. “ _ What?!  _ Of course not!”

“Hmm….”

Mokuba decides to add a few more notes. Personal space—how Seto  _ really  _ doesn’t seem to mind having Atem in his bubble. Patience—he’s seen Seto tear people in two over the slightest mistake, yet he seems to have infinite and unwavering patience for Atem.

Plus there’s... _ ugh.  _

It’s not worth writing down, but he has to mentally acknowledge the  _ goo-goo eyes.  _

Mokuba’s never seen such an entranced, sappy look on his brother’s face. The closest he ever came was the pure and fragile joy of playing his custom piano for the first time after Gozaburo died, and even then, Mokuba didn’t feel oddly certain that Seto was gonna sleep with his piano.

Not that he makes a point to think about his brother as a sexual being. But Mokuba’s seventeen now, and he has no illusions about the birds and the bees. And while he would normally assume Seto is uninterested in that sort of thing, he can hardly deny the evidence. 

The gross,  _ gross  _ evidence.

Longing, lovey looks and hushed voices. The inexplicable tension that stretches between them and compels everyone else to leave the room because staying suddenly feels like  _ trespassing _ . Touches on backs and arms and shoulders and  _ faces  _ that are casual but extremely telling.

Mokuba sets his pen down, sinking deeper into his own thoughts.

Seto never used to be gross. 

He never used to dance, either, but that’s apparently a thing now. A thing that Mokuba only knows about because  _ Pegasus  _ of all people left a  _ message  _ at his  _ office  _ about it. Over twenty minutes of gushing about the gala. Something about the best tango Pegasus has ever seen? (Not sure what to make of that.) Then there was a slew of congratulations? “It must be so exciting” and “you must be  _ thrilled!”  _ The message ended with Pegasus imploring Mokuba to call him back so they can “dish.”

Mokuba did not, and  _ will not _ return that call.

As desperate as he is for answers, and as willing as Pegasus is to indulge him with word vomit about Seto and Atem’s “romantic” night at the gala, Mokuba knows better than to trust a single word that airhead says.

Because, and he cannot stress this enough, Mokuba is not an idiot.

And normally, he doesn’t feel the need to emphasize that, but Seto’s been treating him with an insulting amount of ignorance lately. Keeping him at arm’s length as if he can’t already see what’s happening, as if he expects Mokuba to have a bad reaction to it—which of course he won’t!

It feels like the scars all over again.

Mokuba knows about them, has known about them for a very long time. Ever since he first heard screams. Ever since he stole glimpses at Seto through closing doors, seeing him bound and berated like an animal. Even now, there are always slips in his brother’s camouflage: a shifting collar or stretched shirt sleeve exposing abused skin.

He’s always feigned ignorance for his brother’s sake, and on some level, he thinks Seto knows that. It’s just that shame is the painful foil of pride—and the hardest emotion for his brother to process. As a result, most of Seto’s confessions come in the form of poorly-kept secrets. Like covering up scars he knows Mokuba has seen; admission of the shame he still harbors for them.

And Atem is a  _ very  _ obvious secret.

Mokuba wonders what  _ he  _ would think of the scars.

“Sir?”

He looks up to see Isono reentering the kitchen—hadn’t even noticed that he left.

“I’m going to collect Master Atem. Is there anything you require beforehand?”

_ And that’s another thing!  _

Mokuba starts a new bullet on his list of notes. “Why do you call him that?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Why do you call him by his first name instead of ‘Mr. Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is?’ He’s not your boss.”

Isono seems genuinely stumped by the question. He scratches his cheek. “To be honest, sir, I’m...not sure. At first, I simply didn’t know his surname. Then, it just became a habit.” He fidgets toward the door to the garage, slipping a pair of shades over his eyes. “I will refer to him as Mr. Muto from now on.”

Mokuba makes a face. Gathers up his pen and his notes and tucks them inside his blazer. “No, it’s fine. If Seto doesn’t mind, then neither do I.”

“Very good, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually.” Mokuba slides off the barstool. “I’m coming with.”

Isono seems a bit thrown-off by the development, but doesn’t protest.

Good.

Because if Atem wants to get a single step closer to Seto, he’s gonna have to go through Mokuba first.

-

“That’s right; he’s a college student.”

Mokuba balances the notepad on his knee and rests against the window. Watching crisp campus lawns and wisteria trees slipping by. Afternoon classes must be wrapping up—there are virtually no students to be seen.

“Yes,” Isono responds from the driver’s seat. “He’s studying anthropology, if I remember correctly.”

“Did he say what he intends to do with it? Career-wise?” Mokuba readies his pen.

“With all due respect, young master, shouldn’t you be asking  _ him _ these questions?”

“I have more important questions for him,” Mokuba rebuts. “Learning the basics beforehand just saves time.”

“The basics, sir?”

“Yeah! Like, who even is this guy, y’know?” Mokuba flips several pages back, where a second list is written in a second set of ciphers. “He wasn’t born here, so his information was a little hard to find.” He taps the bullets as he goes. “No criminal record, decent test scores—oh! He and Seto have the same blood type, which is convenient in case Seto ever needs a transfusion or something—,”

“Mokuba, for heaven’s sake!”

Mokuba ignores him. Adds  _ anthropology major  _ to the list. “What did you say his career plan was, again?”

His valet can’t quite conceal a bedraggled sigh. “I believe he wants to work for museums, curating ancient art and artifacts.”

“Hm. That’s more interesting than I was expecting.”

Isono makes an exhausted sound. “Just...go easy on him,” he implores softly, coming to stop before a row of student housing. Atem is already there waiting with a duffle and a school bag. “He’s a good one.”

Mokuba tracks Atem’s approach like a hawk. 

“Seto deserves better than  _ good.” _

He’s been scrutinizing Atem like a dog show contestant, lately: how he dresses (casual, but not the worst fashion sense Mokuba’s ever seen, and he did clean up well for the gala); his speech, his posture, the way he presents himself.

Does his breath stink? Is his hair dirty? Does he have any disgusting habits like smoking or picking his nose in polite company?

The answer to all of those questions appears to be ‘no,’ at least, as far as Mokuba can tell. Atem seems well put-together. Mature. Respectable.

But that doesn’t automatically rule out foul play. Plenty of dangerous people present themselves very well.

Mokuba should know.

Isono steps out to greet Atem and relieve him of his bags. The door opens, and Atem folds himself into the back seat, only to freeze at the sight of Mokuba beside him.

“Oh! Hello, Mokuba.” Atem smiles, and it feels genuine.

The door shuts.

“Hey,” Mokuba greets, shamelessly reviewing notes right in front of his subject.

“How are you—?”

“ _ Fine,”  _ Mokuba cuts him off. “I’m here because there are a couple things I wanted to talk to you about, if you don’t mind?”

Atem blinks and tilts his head like he’s perplexed, but nods. “All right, then.”

Isono retakes his place behind the wheel, and the town car rolls back into motion

“I understand you’re currently just an amateur pianist, is that right?”

Atem bristles at that. Mokuba can tell.

“I’ve never been paid for it, no.”

“Would you consider yourself more of a hobbyist, then?”

“I—Maybe in the past.” Atem toys minutely with his seatbelt. “But I’m taking it much more seriously now.”

“Good. Because this isn’t just a  _ hobby  _ for Seto. It’s his life.”

Atem nods calmly. “I can see that. And I respect it.”

Finding this answer satisfactory, Mokuba nods in return and scribbles something into his notes. He doesn’t pretend to be discreet about it, and Atem does notice.

“What are you doing?”

“My job.”

Atem leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “It’s your job to interrogate me?”

A rueful laugh burbles in Mokuba’s throat. “You think this little  _ chat _ counts as an interrogation? I envy you, Atem.”

Atem’s eyes round out a bit. The implication is enough to shut him up.

“Right. Next question,” Mokuba continues. “What are your goals for this performance?”

“...I’m sorry?”

Mokuba clicks his pen impatiently. “A total stranger shows up and asks you to play for a thousand people, with no experience and hardly any time to prepare. It’s a huge risk, and you might just embarrass yourself and disgrace a renowned professional; but you still say yes. Why?”

Atem is thoroughly thrown for a loop now. He flounders for a minute, mouth falling open in several failed attempts to speak.

_ Easily flustered?  _ Mokuba writes, observing Atem’s face journey closely.

And he sees it. 

The very nanosecond when Atem regains his composure. When his face changes and he rubs his jaw in thought.

“Well, for one thing, I love a good challenge,” he begins. “And a game without risk is hardly worth playing.”

A chill rolls down Mokuba’s spine. Those words may as well have come straight from his brother’s mouth. He’s not so sure they haven’t already.

“And it seemed like a unique opportunity.”

Mokuba scrambles. “To get famous?”

“To prove myself.” Atem shrugs. “To sort of...stretch out and see what I’m really capable of.”

Well. 

That’s a much more eloquent answer than Mokuba anticipated. 

It’s a noble aspiration—and one that’s eerily reminiscent of his brother’s.

“And, if I’m being completely honest,” Atem adds after a pause. “Your brother...fascinates me.” A small, revealing smile. “I wanted to work with him.”

“What do you mean, he  _ fascinates you?” _

“Oh.” Atem shifts a bit in his seat, moves to stare out the window. “I dunno. He has quite the presence. Imposing, but in a really sexy—er,  _ attractive _ way.”

Mokuba cringes. 

Here they come. 

_ The goo-goo eyes.  _

Ugh, he should have  _ known  _ there was a gross reason for all of this. Even before they really knew each other, this guy had the hots for Seto.

He’s on the verge of adding  _ Gold-digger?  _ to his list, but decides against it. Atem wouldn’t go to all this trouble for such a shallow motive.

“Er, right. Whatever.” He rushes past  _ that  _ minefield and poses his next question.

“What about compensation? Have you and Seto discussed payment?”

For Mokuba, this is one of the more vital questions. Because the way he sees it, the more money Atem wants, the less he really cares about Seto and his music. Mokuba can guess at the sort of price Seto would negotiate for this type of performance, and he doesn’t  _ have _ to guess what kind of money people try to gouge out of his brother. 

The latter number is  _ much  _ higher.

Atem’s expression turns bashful, maybe even a bit nervous, and Mokuba is certain his suspicions are finally correct.

“We haven’t, actually,” Atem admits. “But I’ve given it a lot of thought, and….” 

He hesitates. Hands fuss in his lap. Mokuba stares at him with narrowed eyes, pen and notes largely forgotten in his own grip.

“...I don’t want compensation.”

…

_ What? _

Mokuba shakes his head rapidly, bewildered. “What?”

“I don’t want any money.” Atem looks from his lap to Mokuba, anxiety dissipating like fog in the sunlight. “I know Seto’s willing to pay me, but….” He shrugs again, and to Mokuba’s horror, he’s  _ blushing.  _ “I’ve decided I just want to do the concert. I don’t really care about the money.”

Hearing his brother’s given name fall casually from a stranger’s mouth gives Mokuba whiplash. When the hell did  _ that  _ start?

“ _ What are you playing at?!”  _ He blurts, tossing down his notes. 

Atem startles. “Excuse me?”

Mokuba leans across the center seat, practically vibrating in his incredulity, his confusion, his barely-leashed fear. “You seriously expect me to believe that one of the richest guys in the world offers you money, and fancy clothes, and a shot at  _ fame,  _ and you’re not interested in  _ any of it?” _

“Well, yes.” Atem recovers quickly, speaks passionately, but doesn’t raise his voice the way Mokuba did. “Because it’s true. ...Mokuba, I know what you’re doing, and I think it’s very sweet—,”

“What are you talking about?”

The manor is rolling into view. Isono drives in silence, focused, about as supportive as an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror.

Mokuba’s appalled to see a warm and knowing smile dawning on Atem’s face. 

“I’m sure that with your wealth and status, a lot of people are lined up to take advantage of you and your brother, but I’m not one of them.” He says it so earnestly, eyes bright and unshakable. 

It’s a look he’s seen a thousand times. 

On Seto. 

...Suddenly he’s not so shocked that Seto likes this man.

“And I’m determined to prove it. To both of you.”

To Mokuba’s relief, Atem eases off a bit, dialing back the intensity in his eyes and relaxing into his seat. “I’ve come to care about him. A lot. I want him in my life long after the concert is over, and I’ve told him so.”

“...I see.”

The darkness of the garage swallows the car. Isono wordlessly parks and kills the engine, then climbs out to collect Atem’s things and get the doors. 

Mokuba takes a moment to scoop up his notes and put them away in his jacket. Atem doesn’t climb out until he does, and the air in the garage tenses with their presence. Isono takes the lead—probably sensing the uneasy air and desperately avoiding it. The other two lag behind. 

Mokuba tries to think.

Atem glances at him expectantly. 

It isn’t until they step inside, pass through the kitchen and out to the master staircase that Mokuba finally conjures up something to say.

“The last person to hurt Seto,” he murmurs, meeting Atem’s gaze, “plummeted to his death from the top of Kaiba Corp. Tower.” A bit of shock ripples over Atem’s face, but he’s not nearly as alarmed as Mokuba would have expected. He presses on, “And not because he was pushed.”

A deep breath. 

No fear.

_ Once your opponent senses your fear, it’s over. _

“He jumped. Because Seto burned him to the  _ ground.  _ Left him with nothing but the realization that his life was  _ meaningless  _ and that he  _ deserved  _ to die. _ ”  _ Mokuba relents his glare to the floor, inhaling carefully. “I was just a kid, but I supported Seto then….” He musters enough gusto to meet Atem’s eyes again, and a surge of intense focus runs between them. “And I’ll support him now. Even if I have to do the burning.”

Mokuba’s never actually stood next to Atem before. He’s got a good several inches on the man, but it’s hardly an advantage. Atem takes up quite a bit of space for someone his size. Mokuba can admire that—but he also has a point to make.

“If I suspect, for even one second, that you’re using him, or mistreating him in  _ any way….”  _ He slides his hands into his pockets, undercutting his threat with a casual shrug. “There won’t be a single rock you can hide under, no trench you can crawl into, no law or government you can cower behind.  _ I will find you.  _ And you’ll  _ really wish I hadn’t.” _

Now, maybe death threats don’t pack the same punch they used to.

...Or maybe Atem really is a man worth Seto’s attention. Because his only reaction is a calm nod, and a single word:

“Understood.”

Mokuba feels his hackles relax for the first time all day. The situation is still new, and Atem is still on probation, but Mokuba’s more willing to give him a chance now.

Isono returns, unladen, from the upper steps. “Your things are waiting for you upstairs, sir,” he tells Atem. “Will you be needing anything else before I return to my duties?”

To his credit, Atem defers to Mokuba, who thanks and dismisses the servant, leaving the two of them alone in silence that threatens to turn awkward.

“I’ll...just head up to the room, if that’s all right?” Atem asks, taking a tentative step onto the staircase.

“Sure. In fact, I’ll walk with you. I need to grab something from upstairs anyway.”

As they ascend, Mokuba offers the olive branch of small talk.

“So, which room are you staying in? They’re all pretty much the same, but some have better views than others.”

Atem stumbles, catching himself on the banister. “Oh, uh...I haven’t, um…picked one out yet.”

Mokuba flicks a brow at him and mounts the second-floor landing.

Weird.

“Then where have you been sleeping?”

Okay, tripping on the stairs could have been random and meaningless, but the way Atem goes pink in the face and refuses to look at him definitely isn’t. In lieu of responding, Atem takes a hesitant step further up the stairs, face burning, then another, heading toward the...third floor.

There aren’t any guest rooms on the third floor. The only bedrooms up there are Mokuba’s….

...and Seto’s.

He nearly throws himself down the stairs with disgust. 

“Oh,  _ gross!” _

-

Seto powers down his desktop with a heavy sigh, seizing his first opportunity to flee the office for the night.

9:00 isn’t even the latest he’s been stuck here, but knowing that Atem is probably waiting for him at the manor is making him restless.

He hasn’t even had the chance to check his personal phone. 

He finally whips it out as he’s marching into the elevator, and finds a handful of messages waiting for him.

Atem sent him some updates throughout the day—as well as some wildly inappropriate texts.

_ Working hard, or hard at work~? ;) _

_ I know a great way to relieve stress. Maybe I should come visit you~? _

_ Unrelated, how sturdy is your desk? _

_ Mokuba showed me your game room. I beat six of your high scores. Sorry not sorry. I’m just so used to being on top~! _

_ Setoooooooo <3 _

_ :peach: :eggplant: _

_ I had an idea for Battaglia, can I run it by you sometime? Not to step on your toes! I just got inspired…. _

That last one is innocent, but the notion of Atem being inspired by, and so heavily invested in, his composition has Seto’s blood rushing all the same.

He rereads the messages with a blush, jamming the ground-level button and trying to stay on task.

There’s also a text from Mokuba. 

_ You owe me. _

Seto squints in confusion. 

_ Why? _

The response comes through by the time he steps out of the elevator.

_ Duh. Someone had to entertain your boyfriend while you worked late! Btw please tell me you’re on your way home. He obviously misses you and it’s gross. I’m running out of games to distract him with. _

Seto’s entire body ignites. He flushes to the very tips of his ears and nearly walks into a pillar in the lobby. He almost can’t bear to look at the screen long enough to reply,  _ You don’t have to do that. _

Mokuba’s next message is accompanied by an image.

_ It’s ok. He’s pretty cool to hang out with.  _

When Seto opens the picture, the first thing he sees is his brother, winking into the front-facing camera, all vibrant violet eyes and messy black mane. He has a piece of silverware hanging from his mouth—probably a spoon. 

...And Atem is leaning in just past his shoulder, smiling shyly and clutching a homemade parfait to his chest. There’s a dollop of cream-mottled chocolate on the corner of his mouth. 

It’s hard to describe what the picture does to Seto’s heart. His pulse isn’t racing, per se, but there’s definitely a fluttering agitation in his chest. A sensation of weight and warmth that swells slowly through him, broadening into a species of joy he’s unused to. It’s almost too much.

Rooted to the spot beside his car.

Vision blurring hotly as he saves it to his phone. 

Of course Mokuba knows. It was a pipe dream to ever believe he didn’t. 

And he approves. 

This gesture is his way of saying that.

It makes Seto’s chest ache in a not-unpleasant way.

_ We made you one,  _ comes another message.  _ So get your butt home! _

A smile escapes as Seto settles behind the wheel. 

_ On my way,  _ he replies, but pauses when slipping his phone into his pocket. 

One more thing.

He pulls the picture up again. Opens a menu.

He can’t remember the last time he changed his phone’s background.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	21. Con Amore - With Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say a prayer for Mokuba and Yugi as they deal with these lovestruck idiots.

-

Chapter 21

Con Amore

_ With Love _

-

“Slow, slow….”

Seto gasps and tries not to clench every muscle in his body. Clenching makes it worse, even with the luxury of a slick digit. 

After their first night together, Seto felt confident that they could escalate their encounters fairly quickly, that his more visceral fantasies of Atem could be within reach.

He was wrong. 

Playfully teasing the rim is strange at first, but swiftly turns to easy pleasure. Meanwhile, insertion of any degree is proving much slower and harder to enjoy—which isn’t unexpected, but it is a bit disheartening.

Atem is taking his turn in the bathroom, washing up for the night.

Seto had it in his head that he might surprise and seduce Atem into a  _ deeper  _ tryst. 

But no such luck.

Not if his body keeps slamming shut like a bank vault.

At this point, he’s not sure such an intimacy is even possible—and that gives him anxiety. 

What if that’s all Atem wants? What if….

Seto blushes hard and extracts his finger with a stressed sigh.

...What if  _ dominating  _ is the only way Atem...does it? What if his only attraction to Seto was the promise of being able to take him? What if that attraction dies and Atem gets bored of him and leaves—

“Seto?”

He jumps at the sight of Atem approaching the bed, naked and shining with a post-shower glow. He’s scrubbing the water from his hair with a towel and taking in the sight of Seto sprawled out on top of the sheets. Also naked, warm and flushed from bathing, and  _ hard. _

Well, half-hard. The anxious spiral really took the wind out of his sails.

Atem’s gaze slips instantly to Seto’s flagging erection, and he puts on an impish smile.

“What’s this,  _ habiibii?” _

He tosses the towel and climbs readily onto the bed, eclipsing Seto’s fidgeting body with his own. 

Seto shudders at the heat of Atem’s skin settling over him, at the reverent kiss Atem lays against his lips. His hands find purchase on Atem’s arms, and he draws a stabilizing breath.

“I was just thinking….”

The words scatter out from under him, Atem’s insistent kisses staggering his thoughts. 

“There’s no  _ thinking  _ in bed, love,” Atem murmurs against his jaw. “Just feeling~.”

A steady hand is already working between them, pumping slowly to revitalize his arousal. Lips and teeth tickle his neck, and against his will, he feels himself relaxing under Atem’s attention. He tips his head back and breathes, letting Atem touch him freely, reacting to each development with soft pants and arching back.

“I wanted to take things further,” he manages, losing his fingers in the damp curls of Atem’s hair. “Between us. Physically.”

Atem chuckles at his need to clarify, then scoops Seto’s head into his hand and gives him a confused look. 

“Wanted?” he parrots. “Past-tense?”

Seto bites the inside of his cheek. “Well...I still want to, I’m just not sure we can.” He glances forlornly at the bottle of lubricant half-lost beneath his pillow. “I...tried. But I can barely handle one finger, much less….” He swallows.

_ Much less that  _ anaconda _ between your legs. _

As if it can smell his fear, that weighty cock slithers against his navel. Seto knows it’s just Atem moving to reach the bottle under the pillow, but part of him is still wary of that thing having a mind of its own.

“You were preparing yourself for me?” Atem dangles the bottle between them, his teasing offset by the adoring gleam in his eye. 

Seto turns his head in embarrassment. “ _ Trying to.  _ But I didn’t get very far. I’m...I think it’s too tight.”

This is bad news, but Atem doesn’t seem terribly bothered by it. “It’s okay~. It’s new, right? Your body just needs to adjust.”

He shuffles down Seto’s body, settling between his thighs and taking the lube with him. “Now, let’s see here….” 

He traces Seto’s entrance and pops his fingertip inside, making Seto mewl in surprise.

“Oh, wow.” He clicks his tongue. “Seto, this isn’t nearly enough. You need to be generous with this stuff. Here~.”

Something hard meets Seto’s rim, and before he can question it, a new sensation startles him—lube  _ injected  _ right into his body.

_ Cold!  _

_ Wet.  _

_ Inside…. _

Seto  _ squeals. _

Atem laughs at his expense and un-squeezes the bottle. “Much better~.”

“That was  _ not necessary!”  _ Seto squawks miserably, squirming as the liquid sloshes inside of him. He tries to snap his legs shut in defense, but Atem holds him open, inviting the air to chill a slick trail down his crease. He closes his eyes and pants. “Ah…. Atem….”

“Do you want me to penetrate you, Seto?

A gulp. Seto wrings the corner of his pillow anxiously. “...Yes.”

Atem drags warm lips up his chest, bestowing kisses on his neck. “Are you just saying that? Because I’m happy to have you either way, if you’d prefer to top—,”

“I want  _ this,”  _ Seto blurts, locking his legs around Atem’s hips. “I want you to….” He clams up, struggling to describe the act because the only words he can think of are vulgar and curt, and not nearly passionate enough to portray what their union would mean to him. “To...uh….”

“ _ Take  _ you~?” Atem supplies mercifully, shushing Seto with an affectionate kiss. “I’d be honored~.”

Seto’s heart flutters, feeling both touched and terrified by what that agreement means. He squirms his hips, twitches sensitively at the sliding of their sexes. 

“Then…?”

Gears are grinding in Atem’s head—Seto can see it in his eyes. He sits back on his haunches and pats Seto’s thigh. “Not tonight,” he says, sounding decisive.

“But—!”

“Shh~.” 

Atem massages gentle hands over Seto’s stomach, up the elevated line of his thighs and back down to his sex. Takes his breath away with a single stroke.

“Soon. I promise. But for now….” His thumb explores the head of Seto’s cock, pressing into the slit and making him grunt. “Let’s get to know each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…~” Atem slides off the bed and strides naked across the room, kneeling by his bags and tearing into one of them. He returns and dumps out a mid-sized satchel between Seto’s legs, and the contents leave Seto blushing fiercely and staring with his mouth open.

“I know what  _ I  _ like.” Atem picks up a small satin bundle and tugs it open, shamelessly revealing a small... _ toy.  _ Roughly the length of his palm, with a tapered head and sculpted veins—anatomically correct, except for its bold blue color. Atem traces it with a fingertip and gives Seto a heated look. “Now let’s find out what  _ you  _ like.”

“Me?!” Seto is suddenly hyper-aware of the slick between his legs. 

He eyes the toy with apprehension. 

And has a pretty good idea of where Atem intends to put it.

“I strongly recommend working your way up.” Atem clears the space between them and crawls closer, tucks his fingers along Seto’s crease and teases his entrance. “May I?”

Seto bites down on his lip for a moment. The toy is laughable in size, compared to Atem. And Seto is now, through no fault of his own,  _ very well-lubricated.  _

And this is Atem—the same brilliant, beautiful musician he’s been aching after for  _ weeks.  _ The man who saw his scars and still kissed him without hesitation, who’s been working tirelessly to breathe life into  _ Battaglia  _ with him, who passed whatever Machiavellian test his brother devised. 

He wants everything with Atem.

_ Everything. _

Seto inhales steadily and nods, inadvertently spreading his legs.

“Yes.”

-

They slept right through early morning rehearsal on Wednesday.

In fact, it was all Seto could do to get to work on time, and Atem was still asleep when Seto kissed him goodbye.

He’s not sure what time it was when they finally threw in the towel last night. Atem has quite the toy collection—and they messed around with nearly every one of them before going to sleep.

It was...one for the books.

A vivid and sweat-slick fantasy acted out under color-changing lights, in a bed where he hardly slept, let alone experienced pleasure. Atem spent the night leaving love-bites on his skin until they outnumbered his scars, all while lovingly working him over with toys. Piercing him with different shapes, hunting down what he called the “sweet spot,” and making Seto damn-near  _ sob  _ with pleasure when he found it. 

Seto also apparently has a very sensitive chest, a weakness which Atem exploited thoroughly. There was no  _ union— _ not in the traditional sense, anyway. Seto, for one, felt  _ very close  _ to Atem last night—but more than enough transpired and Seto peaked enough times to run dry.

The only evidence of his last couple of orgasms was the way he cried out and thrashed in his lover’s arms, overwhelmed with the unmistakable event of completion.

But there was also guilt. 

Because for most of the night, Atem was the one driving him up the steep slope of pleasure and pushing him over the edge. Seto didn’t reciprocate as much as he probably should have—Atem didn’t really give him the chance. 

Maybe that’s what Atem wanted.

He didn’t seem dissatisfied in the least. 

And he  _ did  _ finish a couple of times. Once, when Seto sucked him off and snuck a vibrating bullet between his legs; and again when he sat on Seto’s hips and ground against his cock, threatening to ride him senseless while pumping himself to orgasm. He released in a filthy mess across Seto’s stomach and panted that he “looks good in white.”

Seto would worry that it was all a soaking wet dream, but his body still aches from all the shapes Atem had him bent into last night.

...And he  _ reeks _ of sex.

Even after squeezing in a lightning-fast shower and bathing in a cloud of his strongest cologne, the carnal scent of semen still clings to his skin. 

He’ll have to maintain a wide berth from everyone he encounters today. Especially Mokuba, which is instantly impossible, since he’s driving them both to the office. 

He just has to stay calm.

...And keep the AC cranked to maximum for the entire drive.

“Hey, Seto?”

His muscles tense, and it sparks a body-wide ache of protest—including one particular part of him that already resents sitting down _.  _ They’ve barely been in the car for ten minutes, and he’s already been caught. He glues his eyes to the road and manages to grunt in response.

“Did you not sleep well last night? You look awful.”

That’s surprising. Still a bit incriminating, but much easier to deflect.

Even if he has to confess a bit of weakness to do it.

“You know I have trouble sleeping.”

“Well yeah, but….”

Seto braves a glance at the passenger seat and sees Mokuba gently twirling his hair—a rare and nervous habit.

“What is it?”

Mokuba shakes his head against the window. “It’s dumb.”

“Mokuba.”

A sigh. Indigo eyes flickering occasionally at him. “It’s just…. You’re sleeping with Atem now, right?”

Seto’s heart rams into his ribs, but Mokuba continues before he can have a meltdown: 

“I just thought that...with someone there, you might start sleeping better. Like when we were kids.”

That stings Seto’s very soul. Mokuba is genuinely worried about him. How the hell is he supposed to explain that his sleep deprivation isn’t due to insomnia for once? That he and Atem spent the better part of the night exploring each other sexually?

Mokuba takes his silence badly. “Forget I said anything. I know it’s stupid.”

“Mokuba, I….” Think, think, think. Something feasible. Something he’s done before. “I kept myself up. I was frustrated with  _ Battaglia  _ and refused to sleep until I found a solution.” He licks his lips. “Atem sat up with me as long as he could.”

“I don’t remember hearing the piano.”

Seto shakes his head. Lies smoothly, “That’s because I wasn’t playing. I was writing.”

“The sheet music?” Mokuba cocks an eyebrow up into his bangs. “But you said the sheet music was perfect.”

A somber, nagging notion. Dust settling in Seto’s chest. 

Ashes of his pride.

“...I thought it was.” The concession is almost painful to make. He catches Mokuba watching him intently. “But working with Atem has given me...perspective. No piece of art is ever truly finished. Not even  _ Battaglia. _ It’s a living, breathing thing that changes with its creator.”

There’s a fresh new layer of surprise on his brother’s face. Mokuba blinks, and Seto turns away from the scrutiny, feeling just a touch too hot under the collar.

“...You really do like him,” Mokuba says with gentle awe. “Don’t you, Seto?”

It’s hardly something he can deny at this point. Seto doesn’t like to think of himself as  _ bashful,  _ but that’s exactly how he feels when he smiles over the steering wheel. “Yes. I do.”

Mokuba nods slowly, still looking a bit awestruck. “Do you think he’s…I dunno, the one?”

Seto chews his lip and steers them into parking, following a curling subterranean ramp beneath KC Tower. “The one what?”

“Y’know,” Mokuba fidgets and blushes in the garage lighting. “ _ The one?  _ Like with love and marriage, and stuff?”

Seto nearly slams into the security gate for the executive level.

“ _ What?!” _

“Is it really that weird of a question to ask?” Mokuba rounds on him, annoyed by the sudden stop. “For crying out loud, Seto, the guy’s  _ living with us!  _ He’s sleeping in your room! And don’t think I don’t know what you two get up to in there—!”

“ _ Okay!”  _ Seto barks, painfully red in the face. He speeds through the gate the second it’s open. “You’ve made your point!”

Mokuba huffs. “I’m just saying: you’ve never done this with anyone before. It’s weird!” He slumps in his seat while Seto parks and cuts the engine. “But when Atem said he wants to get serious with you, I assumed—,”

“Atem said  _ what?” _

“Has he not told you?” Mokuba stares at him, alarmed—then anger tightens up his face. “He said he did!”

Seto shakes his head, working himself into a panic. “No! At least, I don’t think he’s said that to me. He said he wanted to date, but that’s not the same thing, is it?”

_ Warm water. Warm sheets. Warm body curling up against his. Warm words in his ear. _

_ The night of the gala. _

_ Piled into bed with Atem beside him.  _

_ “How seriously are you taking this?” _

_ “Very seriously.” _

Oh.

_ “I want to see you.” _

Oh no.

_ “Proper dates….” _

Seto grips the wheel for dear life as words reanimate in his head.

_ A trail of tender kisses. Lips whispering close to his ear. _

_ “I could fall in love with you, Seto.” _

Sounds try to reach him; the click and hiss of Mokuba’s seatbelt, the thunk of his door opening, but Seto can barely breathe.

_ “In fact...I think I already have.” _

Startled by a hand on his shoulder. The driver’s side door is open. Mokuba is watching him with concern.

“Seto?”

“He’s in love with me.”

“...What?”

Shaking hands, labored breath. Seto drags himself out of the car. Mokuba has to grab both of their briefcases, because Seto is already pacing his way inside.

When Mokuba catches up, Seto rambles, “Atem said he’s in love with me the night of the gala, but I was half-asleep and completely spaced it.”

Mokuba groans and smacks him in the chest with his own briefcase. “Seto, oh my  _ god.”  _ He shoves Seto into the elevator and takes the liberty of selecting their floor. “You need to talk to him,” he insists. “In person. ASAP.”

“What would I even say?”

“Well…. Do you love him back?”

Seto blushes. “I don’t know.”

Even as he says it, the truth wells up inside of him, making his chest warm. 

“Maybe…? Yes?”

“Then maybe lead with that.”

Seto nods, trying to get his bearings. 

How had this thing with Atem run so deep so quickly? When did he get so far in over his head? He and Atem aren’t  _ in love. ... _ Are they? How can he even tell?

Is love supposed to be made up of arguments over piano technique? Of cheap mall dates? Of hideous scars and sex toys?

He knows his love for Mokuba inside and out, but this is different. 

This is...romantic. This is courtship. 

Seto Kaiba has no idea what he’s doing.

The sex makes sense, he supposes. Lots of couples have sex. Along that same line, he figures bathing together and sharing a bed are par for the course, too. And he has grown instantly accustomed to kissing Atem hello and goodbye, not unlike a married—

Does he want to... _ marry  _ Atem? Does he want to marry anyone? It has its benefits, but many people do it for the symbolism. The status. The official recognition of their union. 

He has to admit...associating the word  _ union  _ with Atem’s name feels rather euphoric to him.

Perhaps...perhaps marriage wouldn’t be so bad if it were to Atem.

But does Atem even want that? Will this chemistry of theirs last long enough to consider it?

The thought honestly terrifies him, but at the same time, the thought of all this ending and Atem leaving his life makes his stomach hurt. 

Seto may be confused and distressed, but he knows he doesn’t want  _ that. _

“But what does Atem want…?”

Saying it aloud was an accident, but Mokuba replies nonetheless:

“You should probably ask  _ him  _ that.”

“Right.”

“In  _ person.  _ This is way too important for texting. Or even phone calls.”

“I know.”

Mokuba nods approvingly and peels off to his office. Seto drifts to his in a trance. Falls heavily into his chair and tries to think.

He has to confront Atem. 

Maybe at rehearsal tonight?

No,  _ Battaglia  _ deserves their full attention.

After rehearsal, then. Before bed. Something like that.

Yes.

That’ll have to do.

For now, there’s work to be done, and turning his feelings off for the next several hours sounds  _ great. _

So Seto conjures up his fleet of technology and scans through the day’s itinerary, determined to think about everything except Atem.

-

“Uh oh. I know that look.”

Atem hasn’t seen much of Yugi the past few days, and normally he’d be thrilled to hear his cousin’s voice—but the accusatory tone has him on his guard instead. He taps an incomplete sentence in his notebook while Yugi claims the chair across from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Yugi makes a point of settling in: unloading his phone, water, and a small paper bag on the table, tucking his backpack under his chair, and slouching onto his elbows. 

“You’re in love again.”

Atem glares down at his notes. Pointlessly flips a page in his textbook. A photo of the Rosetta Stone looks back at him, offering no guidance. There’s not much he can do to save face in front of Yugi, so he plays dumb.

“What makes you say that?”

Yugi sighs, but doesn’t respond right away. He sits up and unfolds the paper bag, setting two bakery-wrapped pastries on the table. One has chocolate drizzle on it. He slides that one across to Atem.

“Besides the fact that I’ve known you since we were kids?” He quips, peeling away plastic wrap and pointing. “Your roots are showing.”

That doesn’t register right away, but when it does, Atem shoots a hand up to his bangs and blanches. “Are they?”

Yugi smirks knowingly around a bite of sweet bread. “You always forget to bleach your hair when you’re in love. That’s how distracted you get.”

Atem huffs in defeat and slouches in his chair, staring miserably at the pastry. He is a bit hungry. But being caught puts him off his feed. 

He’s not ashamed of his feelings; but this conversation isn’t going anywhere good.

Yugi takes another bite. “I think you know what I’m going to say.”

Atem drops his head against the back of his chair and whines, “ _ Rohi….” _

“Don’t  _ rohi  _ me.” He sets the bread down with purpose. “Atem. You’ve known him for two weeks. Almost exactly—,”

“I know, but—!”

“Let me finish.” Yugi is a picture of sympathy across the table. “Atem, you’re one of the most affectionate and compassionate people I know, and I love that about you. I really do. But you can’t keep diving in headfirst like this.”

Atem sits up indignantly. “Who’s diving? We only just got together over the weekend! Is it a crime to date someone I like?”

“Of course not.” Yugi shrugs, unfazed. “I’m glad you found someone you like, and I hope it continues to go well; but you don’t just  _ date,  _ Atem. You jump right into the ‘I love you’s and the ‘forever’s, and  _ moving in together. _ ”

“That’s just so we can rehearse more often!”

“Ignoring how obvious that lie is,” Yugi says pointedly, “I wasn’t talking about Kaiba.”

That trips Atem up. A shot of ice through his chest.

“Remember what happened the last time you moved in with someone too soon?” Yugi asks gently, lowering his voice. “Remember why you had to move back in with me?”

Atem’s face burns shamefully, even as his blood runs cold.

“I…. Seto is different.”

“I hope that’s true,” Yugi soothes. 

_ So do I. _

“There were a lot of warning signs last time,” Atem admits, slowly unwrapping the pastry. “I ignored them then, but in hindsight they’re clear as day.” He doesn’t dig into the bread yet—just stares into the dusting of sugar that glitters between rivers of dried chocolate. “None of that has happened with Seto.”

Yugi says, “I believe you.” And Atem trusts that he does.

“But I still think you should slow down a bit.” He polishes off his snack and collects the trash. “The concert is Saturday, right?”

Atem pulls a small chunk off the bread and pops it in his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t I come by on Sunday and help you gather your things? We’ll get you moved back into the apartment, and you can continue seeing Kaiba at a more normal pace. Deal?”

Atem’s heart sinks deeper and colder with every word, but he nods, because Yugi is probably right. He tries not to think about how it will feel to sleep alone again.

“Don’t look so sad….” Yugi moves to stand beside Atem’s chair and rubs circles over his back. “It’s not like I want you to stop seeing him. You can still have dates and...hah... _ sleepovers.” _

Atem doesn’t have it in him to blush. “Right.”

“Besides, don’t you miss your stuff? Staying in a guest room has to feel like living out of a hotel.”

Would it help his case to point out that he hasn’t slept a single night in the guest room? 

Probably not.

“I just think two weeks is a little soon for living together. Especially after what happened with—,”

“No, I understand,” Atem grinds out. “...I appreciate you looking out for me,  _ rohi.” _

Yugi pulls him into half a hug. “I know it sucks. But if Kaiba really is...y’know,  _ the one….  _ Well, you want to do this the right way, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

His cousin’s words are objectively correct; but in his heart of hearts, Atem is certain that any scenario with Seto would feel right. He doesn’t need six months of textbook dating to know how much he cares about the man.

But that’s not what Yugi wants to hear right now. 

And frankly, considering his history, Atem’s really not in any position to argue.

They end up chatting idly until Yugi has to leave for class. Atem only made it about halfway through his pastry before giving up and storing it for later. His stomach is in knots. It feels like the clock is ticking on his happiness again. He knows it’s not the end of the world, that he’ll still be able to see Seto—between work and classes and commuting.

Even though Seto is known to leave early and work late. 

And the Kame tends to eat up most of Atem’s free time outside of classes. 

And  _ sleepovers  _ just aren’t enough when most of the night is dedicated to, well,  _ sleeping _ .

They’ll be ships in the night. Passing, hailing, and constantly missing each other. Seto won’t have the excuse of rehearsal to pull him away from work in the middle of the day.

Atem nearly tears up on his way across campus. He can’t even decide when he should tell Seto.

_ Will it even bother him? Maybe he’s planning on me leaving. _

That thought just makes him feel worse, so he smothers it down in his head. 

A text from Isono alerts him that his ride is here.

Atem spends the entire drive trying to cheer himself up.

Thinking about everything except Seto.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	22. Attacca - Go Straight On, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go on a “proper date” and then get ready to do something very *improper.*

Chapter 22

Attacca, Act I

_ Go Straight On _

-

“I want you to play the parts of the Sun God.”

Atem flexes his fingers, having finished nearly half an hour of warm-up exercises. 

“Really? Even  _ Nella Valle?” _

Seto nods and starts propping sheet music up on the rack—a photocopy of the original covered in pink and blue highlighter. After a few seconds of close inspection, Atem can see that the Sun God’s notes are marked neatly in pink.

Ever since the near-disaster of Seto learning that he can’t read music, Atem has been forcing himself to follow along as they play, mindfully weaving muscle memory with each inked note, reverse-engineering the musical staff and slowly teaching himself to read it. Admittedly, there are still myriad parts where he only recognizes the patterns of the notes, and can’t pick them apart while playing; but Seto is still pleased with him. 

_ “Brilliant! This will make assigning the sections easier,”  _ he said with a glittering grain of pride in his eye. 

That same pride lingers in his voice when he says, “Yes. Your talent really shines through them.” He gives a small but beautifully genuine smile, and it makes Atem’s heart stop short. “Think you can do it?”

“Oh…. Of course I can,” Atem replies absently. After the past couple of days, he’s finally able to reconcile the looks Seto gives him with requited feelings, with memories of skin and breath and warm, intimate words. Part of him thought Seto’s charm would be a little less disarming now that they’ve breached intimacy together.

Part of him was wrong.

Somehow it’s gotten  _ worse.  _

Because now he knows that every advance will be reciprocated. The fear is gone. If he kisses Seto, Seto will kiss him back. If he drags Seto into bed, Seto will lie down willingly. If he offers to give Seto head right here on the bench, the only thing that  _ might  _ stop them is the presence of other people in the house. 

And even then, he’s not so sure they’d refrain. The two of them are currently sharing a ravenous carnal appetite. A hunger that isn’t sated until they’re too exhausted to move.

It could just be their honeymoon phase.

...Or maybe Seto enjoys sex a lot more than he realized, and his libido is gasoline on Atem’s fire.

“And...you’re okay with that?” He adds, strong-arming his thoughts back to the present. “I know how much this piece means to you.”

“I know you’ll do it justice.”

_ I trust you. _

Atem drops his heated face and curls his hands in his lap. “I’m honored, Seto. Thank you.”

Fingers tickle his jaw, guiding his gaze back up. A comfortable little kiss on his lips as Seto sits beside him. That smiling blue gaze washes over him like a summer wave, and the thought of not seeing it for days or  _ weeks _ at a time makes Atem’s eyes burn.

But he smiles back.

And they set to work.

_ Battaglia  _ only has two movements solely devoted to one character: the Sun in his valley, and the Moon watching over his tides in the very next section,  _ Le Onde della Luna _ . The rest of the piece is a near-constant exchange between the two, and Atem and Seto will have to cooperate seamlessly to keep it flowing. 

They run through the first few sections smoothly.

Atem’s  _ Nella Valle del Sole  _ is warm and majestic; Seto’s  _ Le Onde della Luna  _ is melancholy and cold.

Then comes  _ La Sfida. _

The Challenge.

Their roles alternate like a steady conversation, and the two of them fall into rhythm easily. Then Seto picks up the forceful rejoinder of  _ Il Scontro delle Spade. _

Things get more complicated from there, and it slows them down considerably. They persist for nearly two hours before calling it, seated side-by-side in frustration and fatigue.

Putting the sheet music away feels so liberating that Atem audibly sighs when Seto folds it up. 

Seto chuckles. “Apologies. I know it’s a lot to manage.”

“It’s all right. It’ll be worth it.” 

And it will. Hell, it already has been. All of this concert chaos led him to Seto, and Atem will be grateful for that no matter what.

“I certainly hope so.”

Seto offers him a hand—not out of assistance, but merely the desire to touch. Atem feels that same desire, and gladly accepts it, still holding on once they’re both standing. 

As they’re strolling toward the stairs, hands casually linked, Seto suddenly asks, “Are you hungry?”

Atem shrugs. “I could eat.”

Seto stops them at the foot of the stairs, turning to face him. “Well, it’s not that late…. Would you like to go out somewhere?”

“Oh?” Atem’s fingers fidget slightly between Seto’s. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” Something sweet and pink crawls over Seto’s cheeks, but he holds onto his cool eyes and the confident curve of his smirk. “You said you wanted to go on ‘proper dates,’ right? So I’m asking you out on one.”

Atem’s heart melts melodiously before skipping several beats. 

Proper dates…?

_ He heard that?! He was barely conscious!  _

There’s a perfect storm of anxiety roiling up in his gut. Yugi clearly thought he was cutting Atem’s impulses off at the pass with his little lecture today; but that’s only because he doesn’t know that Atem...may or may not have already  _ confessed.  _

In his defense, he did  _ not  _ think Seto could hear him. 

But if he heard (and remembered) Atem’s wish for more dates….

Atem beats his panic back with a stick and lets himself grin at the teasing look in Seto’s eyes.

“Well? What do you say? We can go somewhere nice. Do this the old-fashioned way?”

“Last minute? With no reservation?” Atem chortles. “We may as well go back to the falafel stand.”

Despite his jeering, he’s already trotting upstairs with the perfect outfit in mind: a slinky dark-chocolate shirt that Seto hasn’t seen him in yet.

Seto marches patiently after him.

“Atem, I could call up the most exclusive restaurant in Domino right now and instruct them to clear the entire  _ block  _ for a private party in ten minutes— _ and they’d do it.” _

“Okay, okay,” Atem concedes with a laugh. “No need to be so dramatic.”

He beats Seto to their room and immediately strips down for a shower, lingering just long enough for Seto to spot his bare skin before vanishing into the bathroom. 

Yugi insists that he return to the apartment on Sunday? Fine. 

All the more reason to make the most of every moment in the meantime.

He gets the water going, and just as he hoped, Seto follows him into the bathroom. Even better, he locks the door and starts slipping out of his clothes.

Atem stretches and twists beneath the spray of water and rising steam, letting the hungry look in Seto’s eye banish Yugi’s lecture from his mind.

His appetite is flaring up again—and not the one that can be satisfied with  _ food. _

“If you want me to behave at dinner,” he simpers, “you’d better take care of me now~.”

Seto hums with amusement, reaching in to brush the warm rivulets of water from Atem’s neck. “So, it’s a date?”

Atem relishes the simple touch. Closes his eyes and moans softly in his throat.

“Absolutely~.”

-

“You’re improving,” Atem says without preamble, trailing along on Seto’s arm as they’re escorted to their table.

“At what?”

The host, dressed in fine black serving clothes and a snow-white apron, briefly ushers them aside so a serving cart can pass. Atem hunkers close to Seto’s side and rubs a hand up his chest, enjoying the satin silver weave of his suit. 

He doesn’t reply. Instead he bites his lip and smiles, waiting for Seto to look at him, to find the answer in his eyes. When he does, his reaction is every bit as priceless as Atem hoped. 

“You—!” He purses his lips, face glowing bright red against the pale plains of his clothes. “You little….”

“What~? It’s a compliment.”

Seto’s approach to “taking care” of him in the shower had been to kiss him senseless against the tile, then sink between his legs and taste his wringing-wet cock. Atem still gets a visceral little chill just thinking about it.

“Is it just me, or were you able to fit more in your mouth—?”

“ _ Shush!” _

“How are your knees?”

Seto cuts him off with a distressed gurgle and gives him a subtle shove toward their table. Atem laughs some more, but lets him off the hook.

As Seto so modestly predicted, they had no trouble getting a table. They were welcomed and admitted with even more fervor than the reservation-holders ahead of them.  _ “Mokuba loves the desserts here,”  _ Seto supplied.  _ “So they know us pretty well by now.” _

The restaurant is unlike any place Atem has ever been. Buried in a dark, lush courtyard, framed by rock-lined pools of motionless water and trellises of burgeoning ivy. The building itself looks quaint and old, with cracks built into the stone and weathered wooden trim. Western-style, apparently meant to resemble high-society England. Atem’s never been, but he can still appreciate the quiet and sophisticated atmosphere.

Inside, it’s much larger than it seems—the rooms are cluttered and small, but there are more of them than meets the eye. The cozy hallways seem to curl on forever, lit by replica oil lamps as they open endlessly onto nooks and niches, all cordoned off with heavy damask curtains. 

The host pulls one such curtain open for them, and once again, Atem is wonderfully surprised.

A table draped in white cloth with plush couches tucked around it like a luxurious little booth. Embroidered throw pillows and elaborate floral filigree on the walls. The table is already set for two, each place setting neatly arranged with painted ceramic plates, formal silverware, and an empty old-fashioned teacup. 

Atem crawls onto the couch with the most pillows and makes himself comfortable, leaning forward to admire the intricate bouquet of colors on the flatware while Seto settles in across from him.

“Tea will begin shortly,” the host informs them with a warm smile, laying a narrow menu on the table and leaving them with the curtain shut.

Classical music drifts in from the hall, and aside from the gentle clinking of silverware and soft voices, it’s the only sound.

A peaceful,  _ private  _ dinner date with Seto Kaiba in the most beautiful restaurant he’s ever seen.

Past Atem wouldn’t believe it for a second.

“So...how does this work?” He asks, keeping his voice low for the sake of tranquility.

Having recovered from Atem’s loving harassment, Seto presents the menu to him. “I assume you’ve never attended high tea before?”

Atem shakes his head. “No, but I do like tea.”

“Good. Because they serve a different flavor with every course.”

The set menu is riddled with things Atem’s never even heard of: chicken b’stilla, rosemary lembas and ham, gruyere quiche—but Seto assures him that it’s all delicious. He also says it’s more filling than it looks, which leaves Atem perplexed until their server brings in a tea tray stacked with tiny food.

“Is this really enough for an entire meal?” He asks, poking doubtfully at the rolls on the second tier.

“Trust me: it is. Oh, before I forget….” 

Seto takes the tray by its handle and carefully rotates it, pointing to a couple of savories at the top. “I...wasn’t sure where you stood on eating meat,” he says shyly. “So I had them bring the vegetarian option too. Er, just in case.”

Atem stares at him.

“The, um,” Seto clears his throat helplessly. “The chicken is substituted with chickpeas. I don’t know what all they put in their b’stilla, but it probably tastes like really expensive falafel. Heh.” He swallows an anxious laugh. “Uh…. I think they replaced the ham with cheese—,”

Atem minds the tray and dishes as best he can when he stands and leans across the table, cupping Seto’s head and pushing a full, fiery kiss against his lips. A quick nip of teeth, a caress of tongue. Not the most appropriate kiss for a booth in a restaurant—even a private one—but he just can’t help himself. 

That Seto thought to accommodate him like this has him glowing from the inside out, and that glow strays dangerously close to the heat of arousal. He licks the roof of Seto’s mouth one more time before pulling back and dropping into his seat. He smiles breathlessly and reaches for the chickpea b’stilla.

“Thank you, Seto. I actually do prefer vegetables. How sweet of you to notice~.”

The best way to describe Seto Kaiba’s expression in this moment is  _ short-circuiting.  _ Because he’s sitting deathly still, somehow both flushed and pale, as if his body can’t decide how to react. 

It’s adorable.

While he waits for Seto’s brain to reboot, Atem tangles their feet together beneath the table and uses a fork to break open the b’stilla. He groans ravenously at the rich, fragrant filling that spills out, and scoops a steaming first bite into his mouth.

Food, Atem has found, is like a song: made up of notes. Small, simple sounds that, when woven together by an expert hand, synergize into symphonies that echo over the tongue. It turns to music in his mouth, all tender vegetables and heady spices, and even a trace of something sweet. Atem doesn’t get many chances to experience masterpieces of cuisine, but he savors it gratefully when he does. 

He finishes both of the chickpea b’stilla pies, and is plucking a biscuit and a powdered scone from the second tier, when Seto finally returns to earth.

“What do you think?”

“Oh,  _ habiibii~.  _ It’s amazing!” He drops a generous number of brown sugar cubes in his tea. “This place is beautiful. How did you find it?”

Seto slowly fills his plate with food, but focuses on his tea before eating anything. A cube or two of sugar. A splash of milk from a petite pitcher. He stirs it patiently as the steam rises.

“A business partner brought me here once.” His posture relaxes for the first time since they were seated, his foot tapping absently against Atem’s. “I took some cakes home for Mokuba, and he liked them so much that we came back. Now it’s one of our favorite places to go.”

“I can see why.” The biscuit is crumbling and sweet, and Atem lies back against the couch with his eyes closed to enjoy it. 

“I like how quiet it is,” Seto murmurs. Metal tings sweetly against ceramic as he cuts into his food. “And private. You can actually enjoy your meal.”

Atem cracks his eyes open and cocks a smile. “And your company~.”

Still chewing, Seto smiles back. Sets his fork down and extends a hand across the table, palm up. An offer.

Atem accepts, letting Seto take his hand and stroke the ridge of his knuckles while they eat. Companions in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging soft-spoken words and little laughs and sighs. Catching each other staring, but not recoiling. Leaning instead into the warmth that fills their skin, into the unencumbered intimacy of long-held gazes and lingering, lovestruck smiles.

The server stops in a few times to check on them and refresh their tea, supplying a glowing review of each flavor and recommending sweeteners in a kind, hushed voice. These are the only interruptions for nearly two hours straight.

When time runs out, it feels like stirring from a trance.

Atem sits in a beautiful haze while Seto pays the bill and accepts a box of free dessert for Mokuba. Once that’s all settled, they drift hand-in-hand to the exit. Most guests leave along a broader path north of the building, but Seto guides them south, into the shadows of the courtyard where mismatched pave stones are the only trail.

“There’s a shortcut to the parking lot,” he explains. “And the view’s not half bad.”

Atem follows his gaze up past the ornamental trees, to an evening sky dominated by the gleaming face of a full moon. Silver clouds as thin as candy floss string across it, and Atem finds himself hypnotized by it as Seto guides him through the garden, bringing them to a wrought-iron bench beneath an arching trellis. Star-white light filters through an awning of thick ivy as they wordlessly agree to sit. 

“The moon is so beautiful,” Atem says dreamily, making a point to meet Seto’s eyes so his double-meaning won’t be lost.

And it isn’t.

Not by the weight of those blue eyes boring into him, or the warmth of Seto’s arm curled snugly around him.

“It is.” 

Atem’s ready to roll his eyes, but Seto continues:

“But it wouldn’t shine at all without the sun’s brilliance.”

“ _ Ah….”  _ Atem’s heart stammers so hard it knocks the breath out of him. He blushes hard and hides his face, but Seto only pulls him closer. 

In his misery following Yugi’s chastising, Atem remembers having a delusion that he might be able to put the brakes on his feelings—to “slow down” as Yugi so lovingly demanded. But he can feel it in his every fiber, in every drop of his rushing blood, that such a thing is impossible. 

Seto is so close and so warm and he still smells faintly of jasmine tea and sweet scones, and Atem’s affection for him has entered a steep, unstoppable nosedive. 

Brakes aren’t an option any more.

So he might as well step on the gas.

“Seto, there’s something I need to tell you—,”

“Actually,” Seto interrupts, squeezing Atem’s knee. “I have something to say, too. May I go first?”

Atem worries his lip and nods. He tries to bury his face in Seto’s shoulder, but is thwarted by insistent hands on his arms, a burning touch in the cool night air. The world grows heavy around them, every sensation magnified between them, and it leaves Atem helpless to the way Seto is searching his eyes.

Seto begins with a confession. “Atem…. You know this is all new to me.” His hands run idly along Atem’s arms, voice soft and intimate. “Not just the...the sex,” he says, glancing down and looking shy. “But all of it. I’ve never had a relationship like this before. I’ve never been interested in anyone this way.”

“Never?”

Seto nods his head in confirmation, and it gives Atem a thought that has him fighting a smile.

“Does that mean I was your first kiss?”

He lives for the precious way Seto purses his lips and averts his eyes when he’s embarrassed.

“...Yes. Shut up.”

Atem laughs and bumps their noses. “I’m honored~.”

“Ugh.” Despite his complaint, Seto does lean into the show of affection, and meets Atem half-way when he angles his head, asking for a small kiss.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I don’t pretend to know what I’m doing, so keep that in mind when I say this.”

“The suspense is killing me~.”

What could Seto possibly have to confess to him? They’ve already been up front about their feelings, they’ve already been physically intimate. 

Maybe Seto wants them to slow down. Maybe Yugi is right after all.

“Atem, I think I’m in love with you.”

There’s a short but furious movement in  _ Battaglia  _ called First Blood. It comes crashing in after The Challenge, when the Moon God lands a successful blow against his opponent. There’s a harsh pause following the strike. It brings the entire piece to a jarring halt. That moment of hideous shock that follows an earth shattering twist, captured in a musical rest.

Atem feels that moment now. Stricken by a blade he didn’t expect to connect, paralyzed by a sneak attack in plain sight. 

He stares at Seto, barely seeing him there.

Seto flounders, jumping to the other side of the bench. 

“Er, I mean I could, maybe  _ fall  _ in love with you, potentially. Someday. In the future. Because it’s too soon.” He tugs pointlessly at his tie. “It is too soon, right? People don’t fall in love after two weeks.” 

Before Atem can intervene, Seto jumps from the bench and starts pacing a new path into the ground. “I’m sorry; that was a rash and stupid thing to say. Forgive me. I…. I thought I heard you say—,” he cuts himself off with a jerk of his head. “Must have been a dream,” he decides. “I imagined it. Got carried away. God,  _ forget I said anything.” _

Atem whips out a hand and snags Seto by the wrist. “ _ Habiibii _ ,” he implores, a giddy smile breaking over his face. Even in his grip, Seto continues to fuss and flit back and forth. Atem’s voice ripples with a bubble of laughter as he wrangles the nervous man. “Seto,  _ hayaati,  _ come here.”

It’s surprisingly easy to drag Seto back down onto the bench—his panicked energy makes him light on his feet, and without any particular plan in his head, he moves willingly with even the softest guidance. 

The second he’s within striking range, Atem braces Seto’s head and kisses him deep, deep enough to push his head back against the bench. Atem levers himself up and swings a leg over Seto’s lap, straddling him and bearing down into the kiss. He hums with pleasure when arms curl reflexively around him, when lightly-chapped lips yield to him, parting obediently.

They break apart gasping. Winded breath on wet lips. 

Seto tries to speak first, but loses his way, mouth working uselessly. Blinks up at Atem with wide eyes, looking young and lost. 

Atem can barely contain the words—they come rolling out of him in a wash of joy and relief, “Seto, I love you too.” He strokes the bangs from Seto’s eyes again and again, every time they flop back into place. “And maybe it is too soon to tell if this is... _ true love, _ or whatever; but there’s one thing I’m certain of.”

Seto listens, rapt, hands resting heavy on Atem’s hips.

“Whether or not it’s romantic,” Atem whispers, “whether we get married, or decide to end things after the passion fades…I do love you. I may not know exactly  _ how  _ I love you—but it doesn’t matter.” He nods, believing his own words more than anything he’s ever heard or felt. “I’ll always want you in my life, whatever form our relationship takes.”

So much time passes in silence, and Atem might be unnerved by it; but the validation is back, the confidence that his emotions are safe in Seto’s hands, no matter the outcome. He pets Seto’s face in slow, simple strokes, watching the tears glaze his eyes like ocean waves. 

At length, Seto nods, blinking rapidly and barely managing to keep the tears at bay. 

“Yes….” He says hoarsely, nodding faster. “ _ Yes _ , that’s it exactly. I feel the same. I….” 

Perhaps it’s the way Atem is sitting flush astride his lap and giving him liquid smiles, or the nape scratching that he knows Seto loves. It may even be the plunging collar of his shirt that keeps dragging Seto’s eyes to his chest. Regardless of what causes it, Atem recognizes the gravity growing in Seto’s stare, the way those pianist’s fingers dig not-so subtly under his ass. 

“I  _ really  _ want to fuck you right now.”

It’s the first time he’s heard Seto use such crude language, and Atem trembles, thrilled by the sound of that handsome voice painting a filthy, carnal picture. He grips Seto’s lapels and pants against the man’s cheek.

“Then what the hell are we still doing here?”

“What indeed,” Seto growls, shoving to his feet with Atem still wrapped around his waist.

Atem swallows a yelp and laughs into Seto’s neck. “We’re in public!”

“So?”

“ _ So?”  _ Atem mimics incredulously. “What happened to  _ shame  _ and  _ decency?” _

Seto carries him out of the courtyard with ease, dappled moonlight and warm yellow streetlamps passing over them. Jostles him playfully. “You must be rubbing off on me,” he says, “because I really don’t care about any of that at the moment.”

When Seto sets him down by the car, Atem is gaping at him. Locks click open, the door swings in a welcoming arc, and Seto bends down to slide the seat forward, opening a path into the back.

“Seto?”

Eyes burning like blue fire. Hands drawing Atem in by the hips. 

“I said  _ right now,  _ didn’t I?”


	23. Attacca - Go Straight On, Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seto bottoms from the top as the boys commit public indecency together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest Starring: Seto Kaiba’s Magical Mary-Poppins-Bag Jacket that the Plot Fairy gave him for Christmas

Chapter 23

Attacca, Part II

_ Go Straight On _

-

_ “I said right now, didn’t I?” _

Atem would have collapsed from arousal if Seto didn’t have such an iron grip on him. “Oh, my….”

He lets Seto fold him down into the backseat, breath coming shallow and fast. It’s cramped and stiff, but the door is slamming shut and the locks are battening down, and Seto Kaiba is prowling between his legs like a predator. Kisses hit like collisions, hands claw under clothes, stalking bare skin. 

Seto is voracious against him, lapping and nipping at the exposed dip of his chest, already plunging a hand inside his pants, already rolling a finger against his entrance. Atem moans his name. Wonders how far they’ll get without the proper  _ tools.  _

“Does your offer still stand?”

Atem barely catches the rushed and heady words in his ear. He responds dizzily, hands hooked to Seto’s shoulders, holding him close, holding on for dear life. “What...offer…?”

“To  _ switch.”  _ Seto punctuates with a hard, clothed thrust against his ass. 

The startled mewl escapes him at full volume, but Atem still slaps a hand over his mouth, remembering where they are. Faded street light finds his eye through the windows, and he suffers a violent chill.

“I may not be able to...well, you know.” Seto dips his head shyly. “But I can do this—if you want.”

Atem wishes he had the coherence to assure Seto that being too tight for penetration is perfectly normal, that it takes time to adjust, that it’s probably not a permanent roadblock; but all he can manage at the moment is, “Of course.”

He breathes and strokes a hand down Seto’s chest. “But...here? Now? We don’t even have any—,”

He’s cut off by the sight of Seto pulling something from his suit jacket: the silhouette of a small bottle that sloshes when he shows it off.

“...Are you serious?” It’s not that he’s disappointed to see it, but Atem has to wonder just how deep Seto Kaiba’s pockets are, and how he decides that hyper-specific things like hair serum and personal lubricant are the most important things to carry with him—possibly at all times.

“What? It pays to be prepared.” His tone comes across as confident, even haughty, but Atem knows better. He’s developed quite a knack for reading Seto’s subtle, but exceptionally damning body language.

“You wanted this to happen from the second you asked me out.”

Seto doesn’t startle as grandly as an innocent man would. “...Prove it.”

Atem’s laughter nearly makes the windows rattle.

“You couldn’t have picked a roomier car?”

Seto drops the bottle in a cup holder for safe keeping.

“You’re right: we should have taken the limousine. I’m sure Isono would have loved to be here for such an important milestone in my life.”

Atem continues to laugh while they work on stripping him from the waist down. It’s a cumbersome and awkward process, and a fair amount of knees and elbows are driven into ribs and stomachs; but it’s worth the delicious, vulnerable feeling of being exposed and  _ ready.  _ Seeing his own bare thighs framing Seto in the amber light feels like a confirmation. A sign that the hypothetical is crashing into reality, that  _ this is happening.  _

Then there are fingers inside him. Cold and slick and so  _ long.  _ Slipping in deep, two at once, experimenting with hooks and pumps that make him squirm. Seto tugs Atem’s collar around to nibble at his shoulder, asking softly if it hurts.

Atem strokes his hair and says it doesn’t, just keep going slow. And Seto does. Prepares him with languid, loving patience, acquiescing with a groan when Atem begs him for a third finger. Then a fourth. Until Atem is keening for the main course and Seto is hesitating above him, erection tall and hot against Atem’s inner thigh.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…!” Atem pants and arches off the seat, clenching onto Seto’s fingers, his very body pleading for more. No stopping now. 

No stopping  _ ever.  _

Damn going slow. 

Damn leaving on Sunday.

This is all he can think about. This is all he could ever need. This man making love to him, anywhere, in any way. Kissing him freely. Whispering  _ I love you  _ and holding him when they sleep. This man who drives fast and hides his scars, who plays piano in the middle of the night because music and pain are bursting out of him in equal measure, and he can’t sleep. This man with his nightmares and caffeine addiction, with layers upon layers of earth and stone concealing the deep and burning river of his passion.

This man is all he wants.

Seto is all he wants.

“It feels so good…. I want you inside of me.”

Seto still hesitates, and it’s absolutely darling.

“Have you done this before?”

Atem’s breath hitches when Seto extracts his fingers, and the resulting emptiness makes him writhe. “I’ve fooled around before,” he admits. “But it never went this far. I’ve had toys….”

He cups Seto’s face and worries his lip. “But never a partner. You’ll be my first. ...And maybe my only.”

Seto exhales at the confession, but doesn’t seem alarmed by it. He nods and proceeds, even though Atem can feel the nerves rolling off of him. He has trouble finding his mark in the mottled shadows of the car. Atem reaches between his legs to help. Lines Seto up and slowly welcomes him inside.

-

Atem melts beneath him, bits of fervid Arabic caught under his breath. He resurfaces long enough to pule, “That’s it, love. Push into me. Nice and slow. Just like that….” Tender little sounds are trickling from his lips, like a sweet stream babbling. 

And Seto is  _ suffocating. _

Hotter than a hand. Tighter than a mouth. Penetrating Atem’s body is a sensation unparalleled, and one he was utterly unprepared for. It’s alien, and amorous, and trimmed with the fear that he’ll misstep, that he’ll inflict pain or extinguish his lover’s fire.

“Deeper,” Atem chokes, sliding an arm down around his waist, urging him forward. “Keep going. I want all of you.”

Seto obeys, bearing into him with excessive caution. He braces himself on the seat, suspended, sparing Atem the crushing weight of his body, clinging fiercely to his control of this long, first thrust. 

The lust is receding inside of him, but not like sunlight falling over the horizon—more like ocean tides being sucked far from the shore, lurching and regrouping, returning in the form of a rising, cataclysmic wave. The urge to charge forward, to rut and buck wildly into his lover’s heated flesh, to chase and take him, to siphon pleasure from his body like drinking the blood of a kill. Carnivorous. Predatory. Dominant.

His instincts sense a position of power before him, and hound his muscles to snap onward and claim it.

And yet.

He feels envy.

Too much of him covets the lost and euphoric gyrations of the man beneath him, the red-hot bliss on his face, the arousal he’s deriving from a lover’s sex filling him up.

Seto still wants that. Still craves the image of Atem prying him open and grinding him down to trembling dust. 

And he’ll get it.

He knows he will.

Atem wants him either way— _ any way.  _ He’s versatile like that. Forgiving and free and passionate like that.

Seto follows his example. 

Because it would be unforgivable to squander this precious depth of intimacy with Atem.

So when Atem implores him to push deeper, he does. He pushes until Atem’s voice cracks, until the very base of his cock vanishes, and his swollen jewels smack audibly into Atem’s skin.

When Atem swaddles him in arms and legs and instructs him to move, he does. He unsheaths himself, nearly all the way out, and harmonizes with Atem’s wanton whine as he sinks back inside. Long and thorough at first. 

Then he’s driving his hips a bit harder, plunging, and Atem isn’t objecting. Instead his fingers threaten to tear Seto’s lapel and he peals, “Yes!  _ Yes!  _ I’m ready!  _ Ahn!  _ I’m ready for you. Seto.  _ Habiibii.  _ Move in me. Take me. Fuck me— _ ahh~!” _

Seto takes his pleas to heart and pins him to the upholstery with a heavy thrust.

The car lunges, and Atem  _ wails.  _ Nearly knocks his head into the door, but Seto catches him, cushions him with one arm and binds him close with the other. He tentatively rests his weight against his lover, waiting for a sign of Atem’s discomfort, but it never comes.

Atem just groans and sighs and tightens around him—arms and legs and intimate muscles. 

And then they hear the voices. Chatter echoing with the click of footsteps. They freeze in synchrony, Seto buried fatally deep and Atem’s legs cast guiltily around him. 

There’s another car parked only a space away. Seto prays for the strangers to go somewhere else. Maybe clear across the lot. Maybe they didn’t drive at all and they’ll just keep walking by.

No such luck. 

Atem shushes him through a finger as the people approach, voices crawling upon them like they’ve already been caught. Seto catches a glimpse of someone’s shoulder bobbing by before Atem is pulling his head down, hiding Seto’s face in his chest.

Beeping, clicking, car doors swinging and slamming, a shock of laughter rippling across the lot. There’s a beat of silence, and Seto can’t help but imagine strangers standing at the window, peering in, stunned quiet; but then an engine is growling and tires are creaking, and with a flash of headlights, the car is gone.

Atem exhales and releases his head. 

“Should we stop?” Seto cranes to double check the window. No people. No cars. 

But that was way too close.

“We...We should stop. This was a bad idea.”

He starts to pull away, but Atem’s heels bite into his lower back. Big eyes blaze in amber light, and fingers dig into his scalp hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t you  _ dare.”  _ The command is tempered by rushed and needy breath, by the desperate crease in Atem’s brow and the plaintive jerk of his hips. He softens his touch and traces Seto’s face. “Please, Seto. This is perfect. Every part of this is  _ perfect.”  _ Small, pleading kisses over his chin. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay. Just  _ please  _ don’t stop.”

But Seto is still withdrawing. 

“Atem... _ hng!” _

Suddenly Seto is being shoved off of him.

“Sit up,” Atem hisses. 

“Atem, I’m sorry—,”

“ _ Sh.” _

Seto slams against the seat back, legs curled up in the limited floor space. 

And Atem is in his lap. Astride him again, just like in the courtyard. Their sexes align between their stomachs, and the contact takes Seto’s breath away. As does the way Atem kisses the life out of him and pins him to the seat.

“If you won’t finish what you started,” he breathes, heated over Seto’s lips. “Then  _ I will.” _

Seto shivers with pleasure, loving Atem’s strong and arresting presence. He makes no move to resist when Atem repositions and reconnects their bodies, both of them falling apart with a gasp.

Atem anchors them against the backseat and jerks himself up and down, riding Seto’s shaft with refreshed urgency.

Skin slapping, the curve of Atem’s thighs spreading softly in Seto’s hands. Lips catching, teeth knocking, Seto’s legs straining to pump straight up into Atem’s heat. 

The car rocks back and forth with the force of their passion, swaying on its wheels, giving them away to anyone who happens to look across the lot.

But Seto is losing the ability to care again. Because Atem is hot and alive in his arms, tight and loving around his sex, pouring disjointed cries down his throat with every sloppy kiss. The windows thicken with the fog of their heaving breath, and in the rising heat, they struggle to shed more of their clothes, until Atem is stripped completely bare and Seto’s shirt is barely clinging to his shoulders. 

They’re more exposed sitting up than they were lying down, but Atem is shameless as ever, and Seto finds himself thinking that anyone would be damned lucky to glimpse such a beautiful man in such an erogenous state. Seto certainly is. 

He’s damned lucky to witness Atem’s naked form bucking and rolling on top of him, the slight but powerful shapes of his body moving beautifully through the warm light. He’s lucky not only to see, but to  _ feel  _ the fire that moves Atem’s every muscle, the rush of blood that fills his skin with heat and his eyes with glass. 

_ God,  _ the confidential, carnal cosset of his insides—virgin walls loving a virgin cock, sharing in blooming communion, two bodies impersonating one. 

Atem arcs himself back in his ecstasy, and Seto’s gaze slides down the perfect slope of his chest, down to his stomach, where that large and radiant cock stands proud, bounding and shining with several trails of slick. Untouched, but Atem is lost in erotic throes nonetheless, 

It’s an absolute  _ vision.  _ It sets his blood ablaze and wires his very bones with lightning. His fingers hook and hang fiercely from Atem’s spiralling hips. Mouth ajar in a pointless attempt to catch his breath. Everything feels scorching and tight. The cabin of the car becomes the boundary of his consciousness, of his world, shuddering and groaning and swinging wildly around them. 

He feels it. Deep inside. 

_ Crescendo. _

Faster, harder,  _ hotter.  _

Driving higher and higher at unsustainable speeds. Unstable. Unstoppable. 

Seto’s vision lurches, and the scream that fills the cabin is his. Blinding orgasm shredding him up from his core, bending him back over the headrest, sending his legs kicking and curling in the cramped space. 

He comes back breathless, chest heaving. Overheated and clammy. Eyes rolling about blearily before focusing on his partner. 

Atem is rigid above him, back straight as an arrow. He thinks maybe the man is in mid-climax at first, but there’s something off about the startled look on his face. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed. His bare chest trembling. 

“Atem?”

No reaction. 

Seto panics. Tries to sit up and draw Atem closer, reaching for his face. “Atem, what’s wrong?”

After another torturous moment or two, Atem finally lays his arms around Seto, leaning into him, still stiff and distracted by something. He seems to be favoring his entire waist, unwilling to bend or twist, resting like a plank in Seto’s arms.

_ Fuck, he’s in pain.  _

_ I went too far—! _

“Seto,” he gasps. 

“ _ Shit _ . Are you hurt? Atem, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Atem shakes his head and swallows. Draws a long, stuttering breath. Stunned eyes reflect honey-like light as they turn to him. 

“Seto…. You just came inside of me.”

“...What?”

“I can feel it.”

Seto can’t tell if his blood is running cold or boiling up. He lowers his eyes to see that yes, he’s still deeply entrenched in Atem’s body; and every time his core ripples with an aftershock, he sees Atem’s abdomen twitch. 

_ Oh.  _

_ Oh, god. _

“I….” The words won’t come. He can’t even guess what the words are. He just inseminated his piano partner. In the back of his car. In a public lot. He let himself cum without warning Atem. Without even attempting to pull out or  _ ask.  _ Even now, he doesn’t stop. He can feel himself pumping seed into the warmth between Atem’s legs. Violating him further. 

_ What the hell have I done? _

Seto struggles to disentangle them, feeling nauseous, like any apology he attempts will just come out bile. He’s on the edge of hyperventilating when Atem grabs his attention. Embraces him and steals an affectionate kiss. 

He doesn’t retreat. If possible, he settles down harder in Seto’s lap, testing small circles of his hips and whimpering into Seto’s mouth. 

“Don’t pull out,” he mewls. “ _ Please,  _ Seto...stay inside. I want you inside.” 

While Seto watches, stunned, Atem smooths hands down his chest and bobs slowly, filling the car with thick, audible  _ squelching  _ and his own strangled moans. He brings a hand to his stomach, voice trembling like he’s on the verge of tears. “Oh,  _ god,  _ Seto...you really filled me up….”

“You’re...not upset?” Seto supports him by the waist and tries not to get lost in the hypnotic rise and fall of Atem’s thighs as his impales himself. 

“Upset?” Atem blinks at him, genuinely confused. “Love, I’m surprised that didn’t finish me off.”

“Really?”

Atem nods and asks Seto to lay him back along the seat, moving carefully to keep their bodies connected. He splays his legs across the car and reaches for his shaft.

“Quick,” he begs, “before you go soft. Fuck me while I…I….” 

His eyes roll back and fall shut, moaning long and low, stroking himself. 

There isn’t a bone in Seto Kaiba’s body that can deny this man, not a cell that can refuse him. So he obediently thrusts his overtaxed cock into Atem’s flinching body. 

Thighs drawn like curtains, presenting him with an explicit view of the act. Seto can just make out the viscous streaks of semen he’s pulling from Atem’s core—before plunging it right back inside with an incriminating  _ slap. _

Atem’s voice is soft and nearly delirious as Seto rocks him along the seat. “ _ Ah~. Habiibii….  _ It’s leak...ing….” He twists and pants into his own shoulder. Hand mercilessly working his cock. “It’s dripping down my— _ ah-hahh!” _

Seto succumbs to that primal instinct still growling inside of him and thrusts harder. Brands his memory with the wanton spread of Atem’s shapely legs, the tug of his plump and bitten lip, the visible ripple of orgasm stealing through his body.

He cums hard enough to jackknife, seizing Seto in his arms and dragging him savagely inside, voice breaking as they tumble back down across the seat.

A couple minutes pass, full of Atem’s dreamy Arabic babbling and Seto’s labored breaths against his neck. He waits for Atem to stop clenching so tightly before hefting his spent cock out with a suckling  _ pop.  _

Atem gasps and grins. Sweeps dampened bangs from Seto’s brow.

“... _ Wow.” _

“Wow~,” Seto agrees, and they both start laughing in the middle of a kiss.

They slowly set about detangling themselves, struggling to find Atem’s clothes in the dark and crowded space.

Seto notices the small trail of spend on Atem’s stomach, and can’t stop himself from blurting, “Is that it?”

Atem finds his shirt and wrestles it right-side-out. “What?” He follows Seto’s gaze and drops his jaw. “ _ Excuse me?” _

“That’s not a very impressive, Atem~.” 

“Says the man who  _ sucked me dry  _ before dinner!” 

Atem composes himself and leans forward, dragging Seto around by the base of his skull and pressing warm lips to his ear.

“Or have you forgotten how I felt _spilling_ _down your pretty throat~?”_

“ _ Hck!” _

Seto scrambles out of the car.

“ _ Shut up!” _

Atem’s laughter bursts from the backseat and haunts him all the way to the steering wheel.

“I’m proud of you,  _ habiibii.  _ You managed to swallow most of it—,”

“ _ Atem!” _

“How are you still embarrassed by that?” Atem chortles, crawling up front and buckling into the passenger seat. “We just had loud, passionate sex in the back of your car. In public. There’s honestly  _ no way  _ nobody heard us.”

“I’m doing my best not to think about that.”

Another laugh. “God, I love you.”

A smile teases Seto’s lips. “I love you, too.”

The words come so naturally, it’s hard to believe that mere hours ago, they felt like a lethal secret in his heart.

He reaches to link their hands over the center console. 

“Let’s go home.”

Atem beams and laces their fingers.

“Yes. Let’s~.”


	24. Scherzando - Playful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atem solves the puzzle of getting Seto Kaiba to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes a village, that’s all I’ll say.

Chapter 24

Scherzando

_ Playful _

-

Atem’s heart has been trying to climb up his throat all morning. The concert is just over twenty-four hours away, and while things seem to be coming together smoothly, there’s a thick undercurrent of nerves charging the entire manor.

Mostly because of Seto.

“Is he always this nervous before a show?” Atem slumps into the sunny dining room just off the kitchen, carrying a pair of dress shoes in one hand and ruffling his hair with the other.

Mokuba doesn’t look up from his phone or his cereal. 

“Yes,” he says, “but he’s usually better at hiding it.”

He’s dressed for the office, and Atem can’t imagine Seto taking off without his brother—although, considering Seto’s erratic behavior lately, he supposes anything is fair game.

“Do you know where he is?” Atem waves the shoes in his hand, and the motion draws Mokuba’s gaze. “He’s not wearing any shoes.”

Mokuba lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course he’s not.” He directs Atem with his spoon. “He dragged Isono out to the car before I could finish eating, but I assume they haven’t left yet. Here—,”

He produces a familiar briefcase from beside his chair and slides it across the table. “He forgot this too.”

It’s Atem’s turn to sigh. He scoops the briefcase off the polished wood, grunts in groggy affirmation, and starts loping to the garage.

“Still sure you wanna ride this train, Atem?” Mokuba ribs. “‘Cause it’s gonna be a whole lotta  _ this  _ if you marry him!”

Atem is too tired to acknowledge the teasing about marriage.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he drawls, stepping onto the concrete floor of the garage and pulling the door to. He’s wearing socks, but they aren’t enough to shield his feet from the jolt of walking on cold pavement. He winces and walks faster.

How did Seto not notice the hard, painful surface and shocking chill against his feet when he came down here?

He finds the black town car idling in its space. Nods a greeting to Isono through the open driver’s window.  _ At least Seto’s not driving,  _ he thinks with relief. He’s not sure Seto got more than an hour or two of sleep last night. The bags under his eyes could anchor a ship.

“Seto?” He knocks on the tinted rear window and tries the handle without waiting. 

Locked. 

“Isono?” 

Atem’s unspoken request is met instantly--the locks disengage with an audible  _ chunk,  _ and he opens the door to reveal Seto Kaiba sitting rigidly in the backseat, fingers fluttering impatiently on crossed arms. He looks up with a scowl Atem wasn’t expecting.

“I thought you were Mokuba.”

Atem holds out the shoes, unfazed. “Yeah? I bet you also thought you were fully dressed.”

Seto stares comically between the shoes and his own shoe-less feet. It’s too dark to see him blush, but the abashed twist of his mouth and averted eyes tell Atem everything.

“Give me those,” Seto hisses, snatching the dress shoes from Atem’s hand. He makes a point to ignore Atem while he doubles over in the seat, hastily pulling his shoes on.

“This too.” Atem swings the briefcase in a mild taunt. Seto grabs it, lays it in his lap, and glares at it. Atem rolls his eyes. Meanwhile, Mokuba approaches the car and helps himself into the backseat.

“Seto,” Atem continues as Mokuba gets settled and Isono starts the engine in earnest. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say to me before you go?”

Seto grumbles out a ‘thank you,’ but doesn’t look at him.

Atem leans expectantly on the car frame. “And?”

“And what?”

A tilt of his head and raised eyebrows are the only clue Atem gives him. When Seto figures out his intentions, he looks startled. Glances antsily at Isono and Mokuba before snapping back to him. “Here? Now?  _ Seriously?” _

Atem props a hand on his hip. “Seriously.”

“Atem….”

“I’ll wait.”

The air inside the town car is silent and strained as Mokuba and Isono try not to engage the two of them. Atem knows he’s dragging everything out and making it uncomfortable for almost everyone involved, but he can’t be troubled by that. Seto doesn’t get to cut and run on him like some one-night stand. He  _ definitely  _ doesn’t get to shirk Atem off with the same brash attitude he uses on strangers. 

And Atem will hold all of them up until Seto realizes that.

It doesn’t take more than a few moments. At length, Seto sighs, nods, and motions for Atem to duck in closer. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs more sincerely, extending his hand. “I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.”

Atem smiles, warmth pouring in to replace the hollow aggravation in his chest. He clings to Seto’s fingers, a loose and loving touch. “You’re welcome.”

Seto clears his throat, a forced and awkward sound. Mutters shyly under his breath, “...I love you….”

Atem presses a brief and beaming kiss to his lips. Replies just as softly, “And I love you.” He straightens up, mollified. “I’ll see you tonight. Bye, Mokuba~,” he adds with a small wave.

Mokuba flicks a wave back at him, eyes glued to his phone. “See ya.”

-

He calls Mokuba around midday, after Isono retrieves him from his morning classes.

_ “Atem, for the millionth time: Seto is fine. I know you’re not used to it yet, but trust me, this is normal.” _

“That doesn’t mean it’s healthy.” Atem drops his bag by the dining room table while Isono sees to something in the kitchen. He doesn’t really blame Mokuba for being a bit cross--he may or may not have been spamming him with texts all morning. 

_ “Y’know what else isn’t healthy? Drinking his weight in coffee every day, but have fun getting him to quit.”  _ Mokuba sighs and rustles something across the line.  _ “Listen, Atem, I’ve kinda got a company to run--especially since our CEO is off his game right now. Why don’t you practice your parts some more? It’ll be reassuring to Seto.” _

“I guess….” 

He trudges up the stairs, tugging anxiously at his bangs. He still hasn’t fixed them. Golden tips hang from increasingly dark curls, and it hardly looks deliberate. He needs to fix it before the concert tomorrow. He doesn’t have the tools--or really the energy--to dye them, but he can trim away the blond. Then at least he’ll look more put-together.

“Isn’t there anything we can do for him?” He knows it’s the umpteenth time he’s asked today. He knows Mokuba won’t give him a different answer. 

But he can’t help it.

He’s worried.

“Anything at all? Even something little, like comfort food or music? Aromatherapy? I don’t know, what does he do to relax?”

Mokuba lets out a barking laugh, and it sounds just like his brother’s.

_ “ _ Seto  _ doesn’t relax, Atem. The only way he relieves stress is by getting his work done. He may seem like a basket case right now, but he’ll level back out after the concert. He always does.” _

Atem purses his lips as he strides into the master bath, where his toiletries have taken over the counter space. He puts Mokuba on speaker and sets the phone down, rifling for his stylist scissors in a drawer Seto cleared out for him. 

“Rehearsals, then work, then more rehearsals. He doesn’t eat, he barely sleeps—Mokuba, if he keeps going like this, he’s going to crash.”

_ “I’d call it more of an emergency landing.” _

“Mokuba!”

_ “I asked you if you still wanted to do this,”  _ Mokuba snaps.  _ “I told you what to expect. If you don’t like it--,” _

“Do  _ you  _ like it?” Atem waves his scissors testily in one hand, wetting and combing his his bangs with the other. “It’s not a personality quirk, Mokuba, it’s self-destructive.”

_ “You think I don’t know that? I’ve known him my whole life, Atem--you honestly think I haven’t tried everything already? I’m telling you: It’s no good! ...It’s just the way he is.” _

Atem is startled by the sudden wave of emotion in Mokuba’s voice. He freezes with the scissor’s blades parted and a strand of variegated hair pulled taut.

_ “The best thing we can do is get him through the concert, okay? Help him keep his head straight, and try not to stress him out more.” _

Atem’s not sure what “off his game” entails with Seto, but it probably does mean more work for Mokuba. The conversation ends on a tired but agreeable note, and Atem focuses on slicing away the haphazard color in his bangs. It leaves them looking shorter, barely reaching his nose, but the solid color looks decidedly cleaner. 

Seto hasn’t given any indication that he finds Atem’s hair unprofessional, and in fact, he’s pretty sure Seto likes it; but this concert has to go perfectly, and he doubts the upper-crust audience will find his punky hair endearing.

He can dye it back later.

For now, he has a very important mission.

“Isono?”

Atem flags the man down in the kitchen, where food has magically appeared on the bar.

“Are you busy after lunch? I need help finding something.”

-

Seto thrums his pen against his desk. “I don’t have time for  _ walk-ins,”  _ he hisses into his earpiece. “Tell them to either get scheduled, or  _ get lost.  _ I want you to use those exact words. I’m a very busy man.”

The assistant on the other end stammers out an affirmative and disconnects, leaving Seto foolishly thinking that the matter is resolved.

That’s when the door to his office flies open anyway, and of all the people who could be interrupting him right now, it just has to be--

“Atem?”

His shirt has the shoulders purposely cut out, revealing supple tawny skin that immediately draws Seto’s eye. There’s a sizable mirror-lined box under his arm, and his golden bangs are gone.

“What happened to your hair?”

Seto is on his feet without really thinking, waving away the assistant trying to apologize in the entryway. He pushes the door shut and reflexively rests an arm around Atem’s back.

“Oh. It was getting kind of messy, so I trimmed it. ...I wanted to look nice for the concert.”

He shrugs and clutches the reflective box to his chest. Several small things rattle inside.

“You always look nice,” Seto says offhandedly. He helps himself to one of Atem’s curls, tugging on it gently to make it bounce. “With or without the blond.” 

He purses his lips in hesitation before bending down and claiming a hello kiss, hovering close when he whispers, “Though the blond is very attractive on you.”

A small, sweet breath escapes Atem’s mouth. He smiles. Frees up an arm and reaches for Seto’s hand. “I don’t suppose I could distract you for a bit?”

“Distract me?” Seto binds their fingers together and moves his lips to Atem’s ear. “With what~?”

Atem squeaks and attempts to hide behind the mirrored box, cheeks shining apple-red. “In your office? Really?” He sounds more incredulous than turned off, and Seto doubts he’d have to push very hard to make that fantasy real.

“Is it really that shocking an idea?” Seto murmurs and tugs Atem forward by the hand. “A luxurious,  _ private  _ office? Seniority over anyone who could possibly catch us? And it’s not like you’re my employee.” He sits partially on the edge of his desk, pulling Atem to him, the box pressed between them. “Seems like the perfect opportunity to me~.”

The look on Atem’s face couldn’t be cuter. He almost looks torn, blinking back a lusty haze and glancing repeatedly at the box in his arms. 

Seto tilts his head with a bashful smile. “Sorry. Too much?” 

As usual, Atem has the good nature to chuckle. “I’m not opposed,  _ habiibii.  _ But….” He pointedly shifts the box. “I did have a little something planned for us, if you’re interested.”

Seto eyes the box curiously, taking in his and Atem’s skewed reflections in its mirrors, and all at once realizes that it’s familiar to him.

There’s an unintended tenderness in his voice when he reaches out to trace the box’s seams. “This is my chess set.”

Atem beams and nods up at him. “We found it on one of the shelves in your study! It was a little dusty, but I think I wiped it down pretty well.” He holds the box out flat, ready to be opened. “I checked and all the pieces are there. They weren’t as bad as the case, but I cleaned them too.”

Grinning softly, Seto unclasps the metal latch and lifts the lid. 

Two armies encased in laser-cut foam.

Authentic silver dragons challenging gold-plated sorcerers.

Seto seeks out the dragon queen and strokes the elegant curve of her neck. 

“And the board?”

Atem withdraws and carries the case to a coffee table across the office. There, he settles on one of the couches and removes the piece casings with the utmost care. From underneath he produces two halves of a chessboard, its spaces alternating between clear and frosted glass.

“In perfect shape,” he announces proudly. When he sets the halves on the table and nudges them flush together, they fit perfectly, forming a seamless playing board. Already, Atem is plucking pieces from their cases and mounting them reverently on their rightful squares--choosing the sorcerers for himself, and arranging the dragons for his opponent.

“So….” Mischievous orchid eyes flash up at him. “Wanna play? I’ll let you go first~.”

The offer sends a giddy thrill through Seto’s blood. He’d honestly forgotten about Atem’s chess proposal the night of the gala, but the idea hits him with exhilaration. 

Shapely arms bent over parted knees, resting with comfortable confidence beside Seto’s own cherished chess set. A roguish smirk on lips that he can practically taste. Challenge guttering like fire in gorgeous eyes.

Seto shudders to think of what Atem’s like on the battlefield.

He fights the tremble in his limbs and blurts, “This may sound weird, but I’m really turned on right now.”

Atem’s smirk widens, and Seto panics.

“But, uh—I don’t have time for games.”

That’s true enough, although Seto hasn’t been able to think straight all day with nerves about  _ Battaglia  _ clouding his consciousness. 

“Maybe if it were a shorter game….” The opportunity to regain some dignity just about misses him, but he desperately backpedals to seize it. “I mean, of course it’d be short. I could crush you in two turns. It’s almost not worth playing.”

Atem leans back into the couch and folds his hands on his stomach. “Oh, darling, I’ll keep you going for  _ hours.” _

Seto snags his hip on the corner of his desk and stumbles, just managing to stay upright. The spectacle makes Atem laugh so handsomely, and Seto feels his cheeks burning so bright, he almost thinks it’d be worth it to bolt through the door and pretend this never happened.

But then he sees that Atem’s laughter is, as always, genuine and kind. Warm and wonderful, inviting him to join in the beautiful sound—which he does with a small, embarrassed chuckle.

Atem’s eyes stay creased with his smile. “If I’d known you were gonna be this horny, I might have brought something  _ else  _ to play with~.”

Seto is surprised by how little the taunt offends him. He slides onto the couch across from Atem, and hardly feels exposed, even with those quick and knowing eyes smirking him down.

“I had no idea myself,” he admits.

Now, Seto’s no expert on love or sex, and he doubts he ever will be; but with every encounter and every word, every touch, both mischievous and mild...he feels like he could become an expert on Atem.

And vice versa.

If things continue this way, Seto may one day recognize Atem as well as his own reflection. He may find himself effortlessly reading between Atem’s lines, listening between his words, moving with him as two hands on one keyboard.

Even now, after barely a month, Seto is winding around Atem like ivy learning to climb a trellis, finding a new home in Atem’s shapes.

Seto chuckles again and gently adjusts the dragon army, rotating a piece in every rank so he can appreciate its craftsmanship. 

He tries to remember the last time he even touched this chess set. From the way Atem boasted his cleaning job, the dust must have been substantial.

“I should get back to work.”

Atem grins impishly. “And I should be in class. But here we are.”

Seto is only shocked for a moment before excited laughter bubbles out of him. “Touchè.” He nods toward the board. “You were kind enough to bring the board. First move is yours.”

“How thoughtful~.”

Seto can’t erase his smile. “Shut up~.”

Atem blows him a kiss and reaches for the board. “All right then. Game on~.”

Pawn to F4. A thin, robed sorcerer slides onto the battlefield. 

Seto bites his lip to hide the cocky twist of his mouth. 

_ Of all the starting moves…. _

Pawn to E6. A small drake slithers forward, staring the sorcerer down. It’s a risky little move, exposing his queen this early, but it’s worth it for one of the most succinct traps in the game. He leers across the coffee table. 

“You’re not actually going to let me win in two turns, are you?”

Atem doesn’t hesitate for a second. He holds Seto’s gaze and drags his tongue along his lip. 

“I promised you  _ hours _ ,” he murmurs, casting a hard shiver over Seto’s body—one he completely forgets to hide. 

“But can you deliver?” Seto breathes. Barely three turns in and his heart is racing. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t enjoying this so much.

Atem must be enjoying it too. He laughs softly and says, “Don’t worry~. I won’t quit until you’re  _ completely satisfied~.” _

Their eyes stay firmly locked as Atem makes his next move. Heat blossoms in Seto’s core and drifts through him.

Pawn to G3.

Blood in the water.

Blades in the sun.

Beasts off their leashes.

The dragon queen’s path is blocked by a second sorcerer.

“An interesting game should be played for interesting stakes, don’t you think?” 

Atem deftly avoided his first trap, so Seto makes plans to lay another. Nothing overly tactful on its own, but if Atem replies correctly, their game will take on a delicious level of challenge.

Bishop to E7. The dragon queen is safe behind her ramparts once more.

“Oh? What did you have in mind?”

Seto bites his lip and tries to keep his smile cool. 

“Winner tops.”

Atem passes him an unperturbed glance. “No deal.”

“Too risky~?”

“No~. I just don’t want you to lose on  _ purpose.” _

“What?! I’d never!” Seto sits up and crosses his arms. “As if I’d insult you by throwing a game--!”

To his alarm, Atem throws his head back and laughs.

Seto gapes at him, cheeks burning. “I’m serious! Why even play if you’re not giving it your best effort? ...Stop laughing!”

Atem rubs his eye and gasps, “Stop being so cute~.”

“ _ Excuse me?!” _

Atem leans over the coffee table, stretches to cup Seto’s face.

“God, you’re precious.”

“I’ll show you  _ precious—!” _

Seto wishes it took more than a kiss to placate him. There’s no dignity in letting Atem tame him so easily. It’s humiliating. It completely lacks resolve. And yet….

“I love it when you shut me up,” he murmurs, barely breathing after one of Atem’s signature heartstopping kisses.

“I know~.” Atem winks and settles back into his seat. “I believe it was my turn?”

Pawn to E4.

Pawn to E5.

A minor drake and an apprentice face off in the center of the field.

Knight to F3.

A more powerful mage prepares to strike the drake down.

Knight to C6.

Seto answers with a winged dragon, placed perfectly to avenge his pawn if Atem takes it. 

But he doesn’t. 

He abandons the venture and slides a tall, elemental magician onto the field, targeting a different pawn.

Bishop to C4. 

“Seto, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re setting up a Two-Knights Defense.”

“ _ Defense  _ sounds so cowardly,” Seto simpers, shifting to make his next move. “I prefer  _ counterattack.” _

Knight to F6. 

The pawn is forfeit. 

Atem slays it with a smile, endangering his own bishop and daring Seto to bring out his king.

Seto lets the bishop live. Strafes his king out of harm’s way.

And their game begins.

-

“So...where does this leave us?”

It’s more or less a genuine question, because as ridiculous as Seto’s wager was, Atem is more than willing to honor it. 

Though he’s not sure how he’d go about it now.

Three hours.

Fifty-eight moves.

And he’s backed Seto into stalemate.

Seto, who has yet to say anything, who’s sitting statue-still, blue eyes raking the board from every angle. Taking stock of each piece. Looking for a way out. Looking for a loophole or a mistake.

But there isn’t one.

“You’re out of moves, Seto,” Atem says gently. “It’s a draw.”

It takes a moment, but Seto eventually nods, croaking out, “A draw.”

Atem has him on the ground at sword-point and he knows it. 

Disarmed.

Defeated.

“Are you okay?”

Seto doesn’t reply, and it worries Atem enough that he moves to join Seto on the other couch. He opens his mouth but doesn’t get far. 

Because Seto is  _ there.  _ Bearing down on him with lips and teeth and clawing hands in his hair. The cushions close in around him as Seto presses him down. Legs interlock. Breath spills raggedly from winded lips, “Seto…?”

“ _ A draw,”  _ Seto repeats, sounding utterly dazzled. When he pulls back, his eyes are glittering like whitecaps on the sea. “I’ve  _ never  _ played a game that ended in a draw. Even the closest calls were still victories in the end. But with you….” He laughs and drops his face into Atem’s neck. “ _ Of course  _ it’s a draw with you.”

Atem smiles and sneaks a hand up Seto’s nape, plucking through his hair. 

“Is that...good?”

“ _ Good?”  _ Blue eyes, wild and bright. “Atem, it’s  _ incredible!  _ Only  _ Grandmasters _ can play chess like that, and stalemates are hardly common. Trust me, I’d know. I took World Champion three years running before I got sick of it, and no one even came  _ close  _ to beating me--let alone surviving long enough to reach a draw.”

Has Atem ever seen Seto this excited? Yes, here and there, but always with a battle-hungry edge--when they play videogames head-to-head, or when he has a radiant idea for  _ Battaglia.  _ But never anything quite like the honest, childlike elation pouring out of him now.

“And it wasn’t luck, either. I can tell. Amateurs only stalemate because they aren’t sharp enough to avoid it. Masters stalemate because they’re evenly-matched.” He buries his arms under Atem’s back and hugs him, the energy of his voice vibrating through them both. “Every turn was meaningful. Every attack had a formidable response. We almost ran out of time!”

He leans in and exhales across Atem’s mouth, “You may be the most worthy opponent I’ve ever had.”

It’s not a romantic thing to say. Atem’s sure plenty of lovers go their whole lives without calling each other “opponent.” But still his heart rolls over with warmth.

He pecks Seto’s lips and murmurs, “Something tells me that’s high praise, coming from you.”

Seto smiles.

“It is. And you’ve earned it.”

A few more kisses pass between them as Seto settles down deeper in Atem’s arms. 

“So, what does this mean for that wager of yours? ...Mutual masturbation?” 

Atem chuckles, hot-faced at the thought; but Seto doesn’t reply. Just snuggles comfortably beside his neck.

“Seto?”

He almost misses it--the softest little puff of breath, an unconscious grunt against his skin.

A snore.

Small and unobtrusive, but distinct.

He jostles Seto a bit for confirmation. “Seto….”

Nothing.

The man doesn’t even stir when Atem fidgets around trying to get comfortable beneath him, relieving some pressure on his neck and freeing one of his legs. 

It’s no resort-caliber bed, but Atem decides that he could stay here forever, stroking soft tonewood hair and wondering what Seto Kaiba dreams about.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	25. Ad Libitum - Freely, Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We arrive at the concert, and Atem's anxiety is at an all-time high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch, guys! Exciting! ;D

Chapter 25

Ad Libitum, Act I

_Freely_

-

It feels good to sit at the keys again. It always does. But there’s an energy waiting for him on that stage. Anxious. Animated. 

It makes his fingers itch.

Seto’s never fallen apart during a show, even though the ingredients are always there: a heartbeat soaring and squealing like a distressed bird in the cage of his chest, the suffocating rush of blood to his face, the chills rolling up and down his spine every time he takes his seat.

It’s always there, but he always ignores it. Bites down on it and swallows it whole.

The show must go on.

Seto must go on.

But tonight is different.

Tonight isn’t just any recital of any piece. Tonight isn’t just about regurgitating the sheet music of dead men while Gozaburo looms at stage right.

Tonight is an unveiling. A presentation. In a way, tonight is a rebirth for Seto Kaiba--the last piece of his freedom finally slipping into place.

Tonight he’s wearing white--bright and striking beside Atem’s slick black. The man looks as distracting as ever, with his dark curls tied back and a rim of liner that makes his floral eyes shine in the backstage lighting. He’s not terribly anxious, if the determined look on his face is anything to go by.

Seto wonders just how deep that tranquility really goes.

“How are you feeling?”

The question startles him more than it should. Seto tugs on his cuff for the umpteenth time and nods.

He’s not sure what he’s trying to convey, but Atem seems to understand. He nods back. A curl pops loose and hangs between his eyes.

Seto brushes it back for him. “And you?”

Atem gives the same nebulous nod.

And Seto understands.

They’re alone behind the curtains, in the narrow pathway that encircles the stage. Not feeling particularly talkative, they stand in companionable silence, listening to the drone of polite chatter filling up the concert hall.

There isn’t much to say.

Nothing for it but to wait.

Seto has five pieces to fit in before Atem even joins him on stage. He had to ax the entire second half just to make room for _Battaglia._

Until then, this is a standard concert, same as any other. Something he can do on autopilot, which his nerves will thank him for.

“...Seto?”

The meekness of Atem’s voice undermines his steady demeanor. As does the timid way he wraps his hand around Seto’s elbow.

Seto covers that hesitant hand with his.

“Hm?”

Atem avoids his gaze, speaks to Seto’s shoulder instead.

“I just wanted to say...sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“In advance.”

Seto wrinkles his nose. “What?”

Atem’s cheeks turn apple-red. He rolls his lips a few times, trying to speak.

“For anything that goes wrong tonight.”

“Nothing’s going wrong tonight,” Seto soothes. “We practiced all day and you did beautifully.”

“Well, _yeah,_ when it was just the two of us. We didn’t have a….” He frets and glances past the heavy red curtain pleats. “...fairly large _audience.”_

Seto lays a palm on Atem’s cheek and guides his attention back.

“Stage fright, huh?”

Atem shrugs and leans into Seto’s touch. Doesn’t have any more to say.

“It gets easier,” Seto tries, cupping Atem’s face in both hands. “Just focus on the task at hand. Once the lights are down, it almost feels like you’re alone.”

“Yeah? That’s something, I guess.”

He sounds pacified, but Seto can see the way he’s fidgeting--picking his nails and swaying his weight from foot to foot.

Seto glances around, confirms that they’re alone.

They still have time.

He finds Atem’s hand and draws him deeper backstage, into a dim labyrinth of flats and props. He picks a relatively private corner and tucks them both into it.

“Come on, Atem,” he murmurs, “where’s that sexy confidence of yours?”

Atem manages a small chuckle. “Ah. It’s not really an issue of confidence.”

“Then what is it?”

Their hands seek each other out in the shadows, fingers fluttering and falling together.

“I just….” 

Obscured orchid eyes roaming in the dark. 

“I know what this concert means to you, and….”

A small, strangled sound. Hitched breath.

“I….”

“Atem?”

The hands in Seto’s grip clench painfully tight.

“I know you wouldn’t have given me a second glance if it weren’t for my playing,” Atem blurts, face ducked down and twisted. “This concert is the whole reason I’m here. It’s my sole purpose in your life. If I screw it up--,”

Seto’s whisper comes harshly, cutting him off. “ _Atem._ The piano may have introduced us, but it’s not the only reason you’re here with me.” Hands move to firmly cup Atem’s face, even as he tries to hide. “I want you here. Not just for _Battaglia,_ but for _you.”_ He blushes in a moment of brief hesitation. “I’ve really come to adore you. As a musician, as a man….”

Resting his lips against Atem’s forehead gives him a boost of confidence. 

“And yes, _Battaglia_ means a lot to me. Performing it symbolizes a lot of important things for me.” 

Seto swallows a steadying breath. 

“But you’ve outpaced all of that. I’ve never met a pianist--or even a _person_ like you.”

Atem tips his face up willingly, and his undivided, hopeful attention is both terrifying and encouraging.

“I believe that you’ll do great.”

Just when Atem appears on the verge of perking up, Seto catches sight of the tears springing to his eyes, accompanied by the dry desperation of his voice.

“That’s why I can’t bear to disappoint you!”

At a loss, Seto shakes his head and runs a desperate kiss against Atem’s lips. He comes away shushing, petting Atem’s cheeks, holding him close. “You have had ample opportunity to disappoint me, Atem, but you’ve blown me away every single time. Tonight can go up in flames, and I’ll still be head-over-heels for you.” He leans in close enough to kiss again, but instead murmurs, “I’ll still want you to come home with me.”

Atem’s breath rushes, his hands latch onto Seto’s lapels, gripping recklessly tight. Their next kiss crashes with rivaling force, endangering carefully-coiffed hair and meticulous suits. The wooden flat at Seto’s back shudders when Atem shoves into him. It’s easy to ignore with Atem’s tongue piercing his lips, an eager knee lodging between his thighs. 

Arms draped around Atem’s shoulders, letting him in, swimming in the gorgeous scents rising from his skin. Tight curls tickle his jaw when Atem sinks down to taste the hollow of his throat, and suddenly the most important performance of Seto’s life is the last thing on his mind.

At least until the phone chimes softly in his breast pocket. An alarm he vaguely remembers setting--along with a string of texts from Mokuba.

_Don’t know where you are, but the curtain’s going up in like ten minutes._

_Are you guys backstage?_

_You set an alarm, right?_

_Seto?_

_Is Atem with you?_

_You better not be making out back there._

_I will get the firehose._

Cheeks aflame, Seto shoots back an encouraging text. Silences his phone and tucks it away.

He lets out a deep breath. “Showtime.”

Atem exhales with the same gravity. Nods and walks with Seto up to the wing of the stage. 

Fingers wander over Seto’s heart, gently adjusting the boutonniere pinned to his bright white lapel. A ruffle of blue violas and ivory spray roses. Atem is wearing one to match, with passion-red violas bold and beautiful on the black planes of his suit.

“Knock ‘em dead,” he says fondly. 

A soft kiss like a blessing on Seto’s lips.

“I’ll be right here~.”

-

Atem has never heard the piece Seto’s playing, but it may as well be his favorite song for the way it makes his heart glow and his head light.

Gorgeous as ever, blazing white in the darkness with the spotlights all to himself, Seto Kaiba is a vision Atem never wants to be rid of. 

He’s not letting go the way he does in the middle of the night, but Atem figures he’s just saving the fireworks for _Battaglia._

Anticipation flutters between his ribs, courting excitement and an unshakable, damn-near physical need to play beside Seto—burning beneath stage lights and the weight of a thousand stares, becoming one before an audience and unleashing the masterpiece of their union.

He wants to rush in and retreat all at once, and it’s absolutely _maddening._ It leaves his chest airy and weak.

...And his groin heavy and hot.

Atem tries not to focus on that particular sensation. Instead he knots his knuckles in the fringe of the curtain and drinks in Seto’s every minute motion: the gentle lolling of his head, the occasional sway of his rigid and dutiful body.

“I know that look.”

Yugi’s voice startles him halfway out of his skin.

Atem swallows a yelp and stumbles back from the stage entrance. 

“ _Don’t scare me like that,”_ he hisses, patting his racing heart.

Yugi just chuckles, unrepentant, and tucks his hands into the pockets of his vest. 

“I just wanted to wish you luck~.”

“Thanks.” Atem smooths his hair in an attempt to compose himself and joins Yugi closer to the exit—the last thing he wants is to disrupt the show.

He recalls Yugi’s quip and blushes. Remembers what he agreed to do, and how he really, _really_ doesn’t want to do it.

“Look, Yugi, I don’t know what you think you saw—,”

“Oh, I know what I saw.”

There’s a small, darkened stairwell leading down from the wings. Yugi leans against the landing. 

“I saw a man hopelessly in love. ...And I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?”

A nod. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that look on Kaiba’s face before.”

Hearing Yugi talk about Seto with such familiarity startles Atem all over again. He leans in, eyes wide. 

“You say that like you know him.”

Yugi shrugs. “Well, we _were_ in school together.”

Atem waves his hands, begging wordlessly for time to stop.

“You... _went to school with him?_

“Yeah. Right up until...halfway through senior high. When he dropped out to run his company.” He taps his chin and adds, “That was the year you moved here, actually. If you’d started school right away, you might have been in class with us! How weird is that?”

“Why are you only _just now_ telling me this?”

Yugi puffs up. “I’m not! I told you _two weeks ago,_ before you ran off to live in the guy’s mansion.” Yugi’s exasperation softens into something knowing—something teasing. “You must have been _daydreaming_ or something, because I _definitely_ mentioned it.”

With no possible way to defend himself, Atem just stands there, cooking alive under his suit. He goes to rub his face, but remembers just in time that he’s wearing a full face of makeup tonight. He twitches his hands and tries to string words together.

“So, uh….” The heat is flush under his collar when he pictures the intimate moments he and Seto were sharing mere minutes before—some of which Yugi apparently _saw_ . “When you say you’ve...never seen _that_ look on his face…?”

“Atem, he was looking at you the way Katsuya looks at food.”

It’s a ridiculous notion, but it still makes Atem’s face warm. He tries to play down his stupid smile and focus on a much more pressing thought.

“Actually, Yugi, I’m really glad you’re here. I need to talk to you. About tomorrow--,”

“You don’t want to move back in. That’s fine~.”

“I know you think it’s going too fast, but I genuinely feel like--what?”

Yugi chuckles. “I don’t pretend to know Kaiba very well. I tried befriending him here and there when we were kids, but I never had much luck. He’s not the easiest person to get close to.” 

He spares Atem a pointed look that renews his beet-root blush. “Unless it’s you, apparently.”

Yugi takes a moment to visibly enjoy Atem’s distress before continuing, absently wringing his hands. “Anyway, I’ve been mulling it over since we talked, and I decided that...I owe you an apology. For being so harsh.” 

“You were just looking out for me,” Atem defends automatically. “And to be fair, I’ve made some pretty rushed decisions in the past.”

“I know. But you’re an adult, and you can make your own choices, for better or worse.” Yugi inhales and dips his hands back into his pockets. “And that includes moving in with your billionaire boyfriend of two weeks.”

“Multi-millionaire,” Atem corrects with a cheeky grin, even as he pulls Yugi into a one-armed hug. “Thanks, _ruhi.”_

By now, they’re both smiling, and Atem’s just about forgotten his embarrassment--right up until Yugi says, 

“So…. You and Seto Kaiba, huh? What is that even like? I never took him for the dating type.”

“Oh, he’s not. Not really. I mean, I’m sure he could date around if he wanted to, he’s just never wanted to.” Atem can’t stop himself from babbling. “And after seeing his work ethic, I wouldn’t be surprised if the thought just never occurred to him. I uh, might be his first?”

Atem regrets the confession instantly.

Yugi’s eyes go wide, and his cheeks go a bit pink, but he still finds the audacity to ask, “Is he any good?”

“ _Yugi!”_

“Just curious!” Yugi gives him a small shove, smiling shamelessly. “The media paints him as this rich and powerful playboy, but something tells me that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Atem splutters through the burn in his cheeks. “It couldn’t! But that’s private!”

Yugi’s laughing at him again, but it’s playful and full of affection. 

“Break a leg, Atem. Maybe tomorrow we could all go out to eat? Y’know, to celebrate?”

Atem smiles. “I’d like that.”

-

Applause fills the hall.

The stage lights go out.

Seto seeks him out in the darkness, follows the minimal light from the stairwell. Calls his name in a whisper and finds him hands-first, holding his arms and laying a blind kiss on his brow.

The main lights go back up over the audience as it stirs for intermission.

“Fifteen minutes,” Seto whispers. “Still wanna do this?”

Atem doesn’t trust his voice, but he trusts Seto, and he trusts the thing they’ve built together over the long days of these deceptively short weeks--so he simply nods.

_A dead-silent concert hall._

_A thousand strangers staring and susurring._

_His body sinking into itself like a lead weight._

_Seto frowning. Hedging him on. Begging him to play._

_“Please.”_

_“Just play.”_

_Breaking into a burning sweat, melting in the heavy lights._

_“We were doing so well.”_

_“_ You _were doing so well.”_

_He can’t meet Seto’s eyes. He doesn’t dare._

_“You told me you could do this.”_

_“This is my dream.”_

_“I trusted you.”_

_“You’re ruining it.”_

**_“I hate y--”_ **

“Atem?”

Seto’s voice sears through his blackening thoughts, startles him sky-high. Atem drags a few shallow breaths between his lungs and extracts a clenching hand from his hair.

“Sorry.” It comes out helpless and flat. Pitiful. A picture of terror and weakness. He anxiously smooths the lapels of his suit. 

Seto’s already wrapping arms around him, reminding him to breathe.

“Focus on me,” he instructs as coolly as when they sit at the piano, going over a section for the millionth time. “Follow my lead, and once we’re out there, once we start playing, let yourself forget the world. Forget everything that isn’t us.” A pause. A small, genuine smile. “And our music.”

_Our music?_

It’s enough to jar Atem out of his rising panic. 

“ _Battaglia_ is yours,” he insists, tangling his fingers. “I’m just here to work some keys, hah.”

Seto pulls a face. “Atem, we’ve been through this. The only instrument here is that piano.”

“Right.” Atem bites his lip and stares into the blooms of Seto’s boutonniere. He pets one of the violas’ petals, a tiny, soothing motion. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Fingers take control of his chin. Eyes like an ocean storm, waves crashing him into the sand.

“Atem, you’re here as my guest, and as my partner. You’re here as an _artist._ Same as myself. _Battaglia_ has changed significantly since you came along, to the point where it would feel _wrong_ to perform it without you.”

He chuckles and adds in a flippant tone, “If _La Strada della Battaglia_ is a child, then we’re _both_ her parents.”

Atem must look startled, because Seto’s face animates with embarrassment.

“Ah...that sounded a lot less creepy in my head. _Shit._ Forget I said anything--!”

“ _Her parents,_ huh?” Atem parrots back, oddly moved and way more aroused than he would have expected. 

He drags Seto down for a very forward kiss, laughing, practically moaning against Seto’s lips.

“Do you want to have my babies, Seto~?”

Seto’s reaction is just as dramatic and amusing as Atem hopes. His cheeks are positively scorched with color, his eyes adorably wide and his mouth hanging open at a complete loss for words. He flounders this way for several seconds before sputtering out, “That--! _That’s impossible and you know it!”_

“Oh, you may not be able to _have_ them….” Atem walks his fingers up Seto’s chest, all the way to his sensitive neck. “But you still want them _inside of you,_ right?”

He’s seen his fair share of Seto’s sweet, helpless reactions to his sexual advances, but none of them compare to the cornered, inhuman noise that escapes Seto’s throat.

Biting back a smile and trembling with laughter, Atem manages to tease, “You’re not denying it.”

“I’m--!” Seto comes up short, visibly struggling for an excuse, for any kind of counter or escape. 

Atem shows a bit of mercy by cuddling up to Seto’s chest, sparing him the attention of amused eyes. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist~.”

“Atem,” Seto croaks, “can we just concentrate on the concert, please?”

Still giggling, Atem pats his shoulder. “What? I think it’d be pretty hot to fill you with my--,”

“ _Atem, stop.”_

Balking, Atem takes a quick step back. “Sorry, I thought….” He clears his throat, panicking all over again. “That was inappropriate.”

Seto grabs him harshly by the arm and hauls him against the nearest wall. Gets in his face, bears down on him, voice reduced to rolling gravel, “It was, but that’s not my problem.”

Winded and confused, Atem gapes up at him. “What?”

“My problem,” Seto snarls, ducking in to lay teeth and balmy breath against Atem’s ear, “is that I can’t go onstage _with an erection.”_

Atem’s gaze drops reflexively, not that he’s in any position to inspect Seto’s suit pants.

“So I need you to stop talking. There’ll be plenty of time for _that_ later.”

Atem could swoon, but instead he nods and accepts the slow, full kiss Seto gives him.

And before he knows it, they’re out of time.

Seto is pulling him from the safety of the shadows. 

Out onto the stage.

Right into the spotlight.


	26. Ad Libitum - Freely, Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big night is finally underway as the boys take center stage together.

Chapter 26

Ad Libitum, Act II

_ Freely _

-

Atem feels out of his body on the walk across the blinding stage. It’s a longer walk than he expected, though it could easily be his nerves warping time and space around him. Before he knows it, he’s slowly taking his seat on the bench. 

No sheet music on the rack.

No sound but the soft disruption of their shuffling. 

Seto slides in beside him, and past his dazzling white tuxedo, Atem sees nothing but flood lights. The entire audience hides in darkness. 

_ “It almost feels like you’re alone.” _

Seto’s thigh slips flush against his. 

Atem breathes. 

_ Focus on the task at hand,  _ he thinks.  _ Focus on the feeling.  _

_ “Focus on me.” _

Blood rushes. His heart pounds with the effort of it.

He spoils himself with a quick look at Seto’s face.

There’s a smile waiting for him. 

Hands-down the softest one Seto’s given him yet.

_ Our music. _

The softness shifts into something smart--something playful. 

Competitive. 

Seto’s lips aren’t moving, but Atem can hear his words crystal-clear.

_ Winner tops~. _

_ Battaglia  _ tells a story, and Atem knows it well. To be told, it needs two narrators--two progenitors both in sync and at odds. Opposites--no,  _ complements,  _ hurtling across the cosmos with endless inertia, ever pushing and pulling, clashing and rejoining. 

The sun. 

The moon.

Gods with the very heavens as their battleground.

Atem’s grinning with a dangerous edge.

The audience doesn’t know it yet, but tonight’s program has just been changed.

This isn’t a performance.

It’s a duel.

Starting positions. 

Four hands laid long across the keys.

When the piece finally begins, Atem doesn’t resist--he pictures himself in the Sun God’s place. 

The eyes that sweep over the Valley are his, as are the feet that glitter in the rivers, the hands that brush the tops of trees. 

_ Il Scontro delle Spade.  _

Clash of Swords.

A soft, incomplete rendition. A prelude. Seto delivers it perfectly, plucking out each note with care, easing into the score.

Atem knows his partner’s docile side won’t last long. 

So he introduces himself with a powerful couplet of chords. Improvised, but it’s too late to stop him. His fingers strike like solar flares before tumbling back into place, back into the summer weather of the first movement. 

_ Nella Valle del Sole.  _

In the Valley of the Sun.

Atem lets the water run. 

He lets the flowers shine.

He lets the breeze curve and sigh in the way that made Seto furious at first, when Atem dared to outpace him at his own composition. 

But Seto is stock-still beside him now. Present and patient. Poised for his turn. 

Atem’s  _ Nella Valle  _ is as sweeping and luxurious as ever, but tonight each note burns like the midday sun. Tonight he’s unpacking a passion potent enough to spur Seto on, to goad him. 

To challenge him. 

Tonight he’s playing Pawn to F4 as his first move. Setting himself up for instant defeat, luring Seto into battle with the temptation of an easy kill. 

Tonight Atem is waltzing into a trap just to prove that he can escape it. 

And it’s a flirt Seto won’t be able to resist.

-

On the other side of the world, in the cool cloak of night, Seto steps into the Moon God’s skin.

_ Le Onde della Luna.  _

Waves of the Moon.

The ocean lies quiet around him, and he lies quieter still. High notes like whitecaps rippling from his fingertips. Sustained notes drifting like locks of hair about his head. 

Submerged. 

He thinks of tranquility. 

He thinks of silence. 

With a lurching heart he thinks of Atem, fast asleep. Swimming in his clothes, in his sheets, in the moon-stained shadows of his bed. Small and full of soft breath and secret dreams. 

He thinks of precious things buried beneath the tides, nuzzled into silver sand among seashells and schooling fish.

When the Moon God first appeared in his music, Seto wrote him as a creature of hunger and envy. A being shorn from the earth and cast away into the cold stars, alone in a blizzard of ashes. 

Wrath and loneliness.

A deep, unknowable sea swallowing everything that crossed it--creatures both beastly and benign were crushed beneath his weight. Souls of all temperaments, of innocence and of guilt, all succumbed to the fury of his tides.

The angry god is still here, but he’s taken a new form among the notes. 

Seto seeks down deeper than the thrashing surface waves, the typhoons, the tsunami that chop the sea and sky. Down where lungs collapse and light bleeds out. 

Down where those precious things are buried.

There he finds a god who only wishes to protect, whose wrath doubles as a bulwark, whose crushing weight conceals treasures too precious for the world above. 

This is the god he channels as he plays. 

A god who feels threatened, a god who won’t survive the loss of those precious things. 

A god who lashes out. 

_ La Sfida.  _

The Challenge.

Atem’s response is boastful and bright. The Sun God laughs handsomely and accepts with a powerful reprise of  _ Il Scontro delle Spade.  _ Brandishes a blinding blade. 

Seto joins in, and the reprise evolves between them, narrating a ripple of crashing swords with Atem on the offensive. There’s a well-placed answer for every swing, a perfect guard, a swift dodge; but the Moon God never pushes past defense.

As scripted, Atem’s Sun God whisks away laughing.  _ “Too easy! You’re not even worth finishing off.”  _ Turns his strong, sun-kissed back and moves to sheath his sword.  _ “Come back when you feel like taking this seriously.” _

A cocky mistake. 

The Moon takes full advantage. 

Strikes without hesitation.

A soaring, searing cry of notes followed by dead-weight silence. 

_ Colpire per Primo. _

First Blood.

_ “I’m taking this  _ very  _ seriously,”  _ the Moon hisses.  _ “I recommend you do the same.” _

-

Atem takes a steadying breath, has to concentrate.

The concert isn’t over. He can’t snap out of the dream. He can’t lose his nerve. From here on out, he and Seto have to be in flawless harmony.

As if the other man can sense his rising anxiety, Seto presses his thigh a bit closer to Atem’s. A subtle, supportive touch.

Atem breathes again. 

The Sun God rises easily from his wound. 

Turns around with sunspots in his eyes. 

And raises his sword.

_ “Very well.” _

_ Ritorsione. _

Retaliation.

The Sun answers with a blazing barrage, laying into the Moon ten-fold.

As before, the Moon stays comfortably on the defensive; but the Sun knows better than to drop his guard again. Golden blood flies from his side as a reminder. 

He and Seto share the next surge of  _ Scontro,  _ pushing and pulling each other up the scale, ratcheting up the tempo and then toppling one after the other into the next movement. 

_ Il Duellente Appassionato  _ is, without a doubt, the most brutal stretch of notes in all of  _ Battaglia.  _ Fingers tearing furiously across the keys, Atem and Seto trading off bar by bar, note by note. The gods collide between them; the Moon pushes forward, the Sun falls back, and then the positions switch. Trading off and on, wrestling dominance from each others’ hands.

Somehow, Atem can’t remember this part of the story. Something like a dynamic draw flickers in the back of his mind. A stalemate. Two gods, equally matched, withdrawing with dignity and respect. 

He ignores it.

Because something else is happening in the music. Something else is already blooming as  _ Duellente  _ draws to a close. 

By the time the next reprise of  _ Scontro  _ begins, heavy and slow, Atem is thinking less about battle, and more about….

Well. 

_ Sex. _

It’s not his fault, though; not the product of an aroused mind getting distracted from its task. 

It’s in the music. It’s in the way Seto shoves each note into the keyboard, as if his entire body is being rocked by a rolling force. Weighty and impassioned. Rubbing warmly against Atem’s thigh.

It’s in the way Atem decides to improvise again: pushing deep, rich chords into the reprise, imagining that  _ he’s  _ the rolling force behind Seto’s lurching body. 

The original scene of the gods evaporates, the one where they’re bowing and bestowing honors on each other. It’s replaced with something like the bright glare of sunlight rippling through a creek. Light and water mixed and mingling, roiling together in a beautiful, burbling display. Gods enamored by the thrill of rivalry, laying down together in the field of battle.

Christening the fertile, war-tilled earth with their passion.

-

_ Le Anime Rivale.  _

_ Le Anime Gemelle. _

Right up to the start of the concert, Seto wasn’t sure which title he preferred for the final movement of  _ Battaglia.  _

Here, in the heat of playing, performing, bringing his masterwork to life, he decides that both are perfect.

Rival Souls. 

Kindred Spirits.

He’s long ignored the fact that  _ le anime gemelle  _ can also mean “soul mates,” shy and ashamed of the more intimate intonation.

It doesn’t bother him anymore.

In fact, it feels  _ right.  _ And in its  _ rightness,  _ it begs him to reconsider the final scene. 

Initially, it was one of emerging kinship: the gods bow out and part ways as rivals, satisfied--for the moment--and looking forward to the next bout. 

But, as is his wont, Atem reroutes the river of Seto’s life simply by existing. With Atem at his side, improvising like the rogue element he is, throwing in extra notes and fueling Seto’s tentative fire, the raging battle between the gods took on strange and dangerous shapes. 

Somewhere down the line, the alchemy of Atem’s presence turned destruction into creation. Combat became a dance of force and fire, of wind and waves barely-contained by their avatars. Bodies whirling and winding close, colliding and crashing apart. Traps laid by nimble feet. 

And hands.

It isn’t until halfway through the movement that Seto realizes Atem is messing with him.

Sharing a keyboard automatically means crossing hands. It’s inevitable, and the two of them have made it work very smoothly. Atem took to the challenge like a duck to water, and Seto should have known it would eventually turn to trouble. Because now Atem is shooting his hand under and over Seto’s arm, stealing notes right out from under Seto’s fingers, playing bits and pieces out of turn.

There’s a heartbeat of a moment where he snags a quick glance at Atem. 

Irritated.

Betrayed. 

But then it hits him. 

_ “Each move is a challenge, to keep you on your toes and test your bond with your partner.” _

_ “It’s a game.” _

_ “Exactly.” _

Ah. 

So that’s how it is. 

Atem is dragging him onto the dancefloor again, taking him and molding him into the fast and fiery motions of a tango, teaching him traps and  _ open-legs.  _

Once again, Atem insists on rewriting the sheet music. 

And Seto decides,  _ Why not?  _ They’re already here. The piece is almost over. The audience has already made up its mind about their performance. 

And Atem has helped him let go before.

...But Seto doesn’t just want to  _ let go.  _

He wants to unseat Atem as thoroughly as Atem unseats him. 

So he fights back with something a little more  _ sensual  _ than meddling fingers.

This battle will not end with respectful nods and a peaceful parting of ways.

It’s difficult to describe just how Seto changes the music--whether it’s a matter of tempo, or pitch, or added chords. It’s much easier to describe his change in  _ inspiration,  _ how he repaints the scene in his head and lets it flood his fingers, spilling over the keys and tinting their sound.

What began as an attack lands as a furious kiss. Bodies collide. 

Suddenly the heat of the Sun is in the Moon’s blood, warming his flesh and making him glow. Suddenly they’re lying down in the seams of the earth, where blazing sand is lapped by frigid waves.

Sunlight pierces the depths of the ocean, turning it all manner of greens and blues and silvers. Illuminating its creatures, and the fields of tangled plants that blanket its bones.

Making the precious things deep inside of it  _ shine. _

The Moon is full.

The scarred white planes of his skin are bathed in borrowed light—an adoring gift from the Sun.

And as he sways and shifts on the bench, Seto senses a memory surfacing.

He finds a dream that once rattled him is now motivating him, recharging the raw, erotic passion that threatened to consume him, letting him repurpose it into passion for his music.

_ Piano keys roll between the sheets.  _

_ Love made like music, note by hot, flush-skinned note. _

_ Echoes of a silken voice.  _

_ Being thrust thoroughly into the keys. _

The gods are contending in a  _ very  _ different way, now. Tumbling over each other for a new type of dominance. 

To Seto’s elation, Atem picks up on the shift instantly, and then it’s just the two of them improvising together again. Pushing and pulling. Feeding off of each other’s energy, stoking each other’s fires. A script discarded in favor of selfish emotion. 

The gods in their heads make love in  _ allargando.  _ Slowing, broadening, blossoming in colors that can only be  _ felt.  _ A climax sculpted by steady, dramatic chords, swaying up the scale. 

Hands crossed well into each other’s space. Faces close enough to exchange breath. 

Silence. 

Endless, excruciating silence. 

Neither of them breathe until the applause starts. Splits the hall open like a thunderclap. 

And it’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to upload the final chapter later today~. This is so exciting!!


	27. Al Fine - ...to the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! The final chapter! I know it didn't take very long to post, and there wasn't a whole lot of time for suspense between chapters, but I was just too excited to share this with you. Thank you so much to everyone for reading, and for all of your wonderful comments. I really appreciate them, and will do my best to respond to them when I can.

Chapter 27

Al Fine

_...to the End _

-

After the surreal experience of taking their bows and escaping the limelight, Atem and Seto find themselves backstage once more. Alone and with something potent pulsing in the air between them. Seto took his hand at some point, and has yet to let go of it.

“Atem,” he mutters, and his voice sounds so distant through the ringing in Atem’s soul.

Atem glances at him in lieu of an answer. 

“That was….”

“Good?” Atem supplies, watching Seto with a blur of hope and anxiety. 

“ _ Good?”  _ Seto barks, and his face ignites with awe. His hands move to cradle Atem’s face, guiding him close, bringing them nose-to-nose.

“Atem, that was  _ transcendent!” _

While Atem has to agree, he can’t help but flounder under such praise, seared as always by the laser of Seto Kaiba’s undivided attention. “Yeah?”

“Yes!”

Those hands drop to Atem’s waist. Seto’s kiss lands hard and fast and full of simmering emotion. Atem scrambles just to steady himself as Seto dips him to one side and deepens their connection, robbing the air straight from Atem’s lungs and the clarity from his brain.

One blazing kiss shatters into a meteor shower of balmy pecks all down Atem’s face. Lips voyage into the hollow of Atem’s throat, arms hold his arching body firmly to Seto’s chest.

“I couldn’t imagine a better performance,” Seto gushes in a warm rush along Atem’s jaw. Pressed so close together, Atem can feel both of their hearts shivering in their chests. 

“Really?”

Seto lets out a shaky breath, the light of the heavens alive in his eyes. 

“Yes. You were  _ beautiful _ . You always are.”

Seto kisses his cheek, and then Atem’s feet are leaving the floor, his entire self spun in a wide, whimsical arc that leaves him clinging to Seto’s shoulders. 

Atem laughs freely, excitement and relief spilling together in his chest, pouring over at the outlandish show of affection. 

Then Seto lowers him back into necking range, and Atem comes willingly, cozying right into him.

“And that ending,” Seto practically growls against Atem’s skin, making them both shiver. “ _ Much  _ better than the original.”

Atem chuckles. “It certainly had more  _ passion.” _

He blushes at the thought of two gods (who inexplicably bear resemblence to Seto and himself) making love at the edge of creation. Forgets that Seto might not have been picturing something quite so risque. Blurts out, “I hope that doesn’t count as public indecency.”

“It doesn’t,” Seto assures him, “but  _ this  _ probably does.”

“What-- _ hah!” _

Atem’s feet might have hit the ground--briefly--before Seto swept him up against the nearest wall; but the issue dissolves instantly. 

Their lips lock together once more, the weight of Seto’s body and ardor holding Atem up with ease. 

Atem scrabbles for any kind of grip, hands hustling through Seto’s hair, legs hooking around his hips.

Seto kisses him senseless and then some, and when they finally wrench apart, he’s panting hard beside Atem’s cheek.

“God, look at me…. Trembling with desire, unable to think of  _ anything  _ other than how much I want you.”

The heavens deepen to midnight nebulae in his eyes.

“Tell me you feel it, Atem.”

The plaintive demand has Atem meling in Seto’s arms. 

He nods frantically.

“Of course I do, Seto…. I’m surprised I was even able to perform tonight. All I could think about was you.”

Seto’s smirk crashes into him, claims his mouth and knocks the wind out of him all over again. 

Barely clinging to his senses, Atem pushes on Seto’s chin, forcing them both up for air.

“Hah-- _ habiibii!  _ Please!” Atem giggles and squirms, thrilled and abashed and all-too aware of their surroundings--and the heavy, heated presence of Seto Kaiba between his legs. “We’re in public!”

“Didn’t stop us last time,” Seto rumbles, tightening his grip on Atem’s ass.

Incisors raking goosebumps along the side of his neck. That long, brazen body starting to rock against his.

Atem fails to conceal a moan, knocking his head back and dragging nails down Seto’s nape. He groans Seto’s name in a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Has to clap a hand over his own mouth when Seto ruts into him, nailing him to the wall like a painting and making his legs quake.

“They’re waiting for us,” he tries, rolling his hungry hips, begging for more friction. “They’ll come looking for us.”

“That’s what hiding places are for,” Seto quips. He grinds Atem into the wall and laps at his neck.

Just as Atem is fighting back another moan, they hear footsteps thudding up the stairwell.

In a whirlwind of motion, Atem is back on his feet, straightening his jacket while Seto smooths his hair back into place. 

Mokuba finds them more or less composed, if a bit dazed; but he seems willing to chalk it up to nerves. 

“Guys, that was awesome!”

Atem catches Seto smirking at him as if to say,  _ “Yes, it was.” _

-

They step into the lobby and are swiftly cornered by Atem’s friends. From there, they’re cast into a sea of congratulations and small talk--all of which would be more enjoyable if Atem’s blood weren’t pounding in his ears.

Most of it, he’s certain, is just post-performance nerves. 

The rest, however, is a rising and unrelenting need to tackle Seto Kaiba into bed and love him raw.

It’s worse than the night of the gala, and Atem knows it’s only a matter of time before his body betrays him in front of everyone.

Seto seems about as cool-headed as ever, but Atem doesn’t trust it for a second. The clock is ticking on Seto’s composure too. Atem knows it from the blue fire in his eyes, from his polite replies that are even more curt than usual.

Most of their time is eaten up by Yugi and the gang, with just a trickle of other attendees daring to compliment Seto Kaiba in person. They’re noticeably less interested in Atem, but he’s grateful for that. He’s not sure how much grandstanding he could do in his current state. 

Yugi seems sensitive to Atem’s plight--whether he thinks it’s from exhaustion, overstimulation, or something else. It doesn’t matter. Atem is endlessly thankful for him when he convinces the others that it’s time to leave.

Between him and Mokuba, who has no qualms about bulldozing the elite to clear a path for his brother, Atem and Seto finally escape the attention and make their exit.

They pile into the town car when Isono pulls it around. 

Mokuba settles into the passenger seat, and soon the cabin is full of his ramblings, punctuated here and there by Isono’s affirmations.

It’s not air-tight privacy, but it is enough for Seto to slide his palm over Atem’s lap and whisper, “ _ I want you inside of me tonight.” _

It makes for the single longest drive of Atem’s life. A good portion of his mind is still adrift in the haze that kept him from panicking at the keys, and the parts of him that aren’t busy dissociating are instead drowning in a hot-spring of need. All while the object of his desire sits close and palms him through his clothes.

Thankfully, there’s no question of having dinner together, or socializing when they arrive at the manor. Mokuba yawns and excuses himself as if  _ he  _ pulled off the performance of a lifetime, and Isono departs shortly after.

The door to the master bedroom latches shut.

Its lock clicks soundly into place.

They drag each other out of their clothes, barely making it to the bed before their stripped bodies collide.

Hands foreshadowing lips on heightened flesh. Rushed breath belying a need that can’t be put into words.

Seto is a helpless mess the second his back hits the sheets, gasping as if he’s already close.

“I’ve hardly even touched you,” Atem taunts with affection, “and you’re already  _ soaked.” _

Seto huffs and cinches his legs painfully tight about Atem’s waist.

“Don’t tease.”

Atem rolls his eyes, but is already moving forward. He slicks Seto up and sets to working him open with as much patience and care as he can manage.

They spend a long, luxurious time at this stage, partially for Seto’s sake, and partially for the fun of it. For the intimacy of drifting through sensory limbo together. There isn’t much talking aside from the occasional inquiry and its answer.

“How many…?”

“Two.”

A warm hand rubbing over Atem’s shoulder. 

“...More.”

A winded moan. 

“Are you okay?”

“ _ God,  _ yes, don’t stop….”

Time passes over them in no particular hurry. Bodies writhe sweetly among the bedding, lips mingling and mouthing silent little nothings in the space between. 

Three lovingly becomes four between Seto’s thighs.

“It feels good….” Seto’s whimpering, swiping his heels along the backs of Atem’s legs, caving and crooning at his every touch. “I think...I’m ready….”

He jerks his hips eagerly, teeth pressing pitiful little bites to Atem’s neck.

“Are you sure?” Atem asks, even though he’s hot and bothered and fully hard, and the man of his dreams is warm and wet and waiting beneath him. 

“Yes... _ yes.  _ I’m ready for you,” Seto insists, his voice dreamy and soft. “I want you inside of me, Atem. Now... _ please….” _

It sounds like music when Seto moans like this, and Atem doesn’t hesitate to align their bodies. 

He begs Seto to stop him for any reason, at any time, and reiterates his own inexperience in a small voice.

He’s never taken before--not in this way.

_ “You’ll be my first. And maybe my only.” _

Seto kisses him, flushed lips mouthing their demands.

“Atem….  _ Fuck me.” _

Atem groans in blessed defeat. 

Nudges Seto’s legs a bit wider. 

And pushes.

-

“Atem... _ Atem! Ohh,  _ fuck….”

Seto is thrown back to their tryst in his car, when he was floored by the singular feeling of another person’s warm, living sex wrapped around him. Except now that sex is  _ inside  _ of him and plunging deeper. Shaping and claiming him from his very core.

_ Tighter than a mouth.  _

_ Hotter than a hand. _

Bigger, fuller than any of the toys. 

More commanding than mischievous fingers, or even a naughty tongue.

And Atem is so  _ warm.  _

Warm like raw sunlight on a naked back.

Radiant.

And  _ huge.  _

Everything about Atem is larger than it seems, larger than life. His presence, his wit, his talent, his….

“ _ Ahh~!” _

Seto swears breathlessly as more of his body yields to Atem’s arrival. Each pinching ache a herald, a mere servant announcing the king as he strides into his hall. 

“Atem, it’s big... _ it’s big…!” _

Atem holds position until Seto permits him to push farther, biting his lip hard and already ruddy in the cheeks. He grinds something out in Arabic, and barely manages to translate, “Almost there, love. Let me in….”

They both sigh long and soft when Atem fills him completely, comes to rest within a place he never used to think of as empty. 

But now Seto’s been spoiled by the euphoria of having that place filled, of being unable to move even a fraction without feeling Atem’s weight shift within him. 

He notices Atem’s arms shuddering on either side of him, feels the tension in his skin and the labored rush of his breath. 

He knows Atem will wait. 

For as long as Seto needs him to.

He’ll hold his trembling need in check until Seto gives the word. 

It’s a gift of power, and Seto wishes he was more inclined to drag it out, to enjoy the feel of Atem’s reins in his hands; but he craves this just as badly as Atem does. He trembles just as hard. His heart races with the same rampant desire, and he doesn’t want to wait.

Seto’s body is already moving, pleading for more with rolling hips and tugging hands. His motions gently dislodge Atem before swallowing him back inside, coaxing ambrosial sounds from the man’s mouth.

“Come closer.”

Atem acquiesces, lying flush along Seto’s body and burying his arms under Seto’s back.

Seto nips at his ear and mewls for him to move.

“I’m ready, Atem.  _ I’m ready.  _ Take me. Here, now,  _ please….” _

A surge of impatient need rattles Seto’s entire being. He claws at Atem’s back and practically snarls.

“Give me everything you’ve got!”

Atem rears back in surprise at first, propping himself up and blinking down at Seto with wide, orchid eyes. 

But then he makes  _ that face.  _

That cocky devil’s smile of his.

It turns Seto’s blood to lightning.

Atem purrs, “As you wish,” and seizes him for a kiss. 

In that same, lightheaded moment, he  _ thrusts.  _

Drills Seto into the sheets with a fluid roll of his hips. 

Seto’s reflexive cry is smothered by Atem’s mouth--teeth teasing at his lips as a firm hand guides him around by the hair. 

Pain is becoming a distant, useless memory with every pump of heat into Seto’s body, until the only feedback his brain can register is  _ more. _

And the game is on.

Atem is harder to throw around than one might suspect. He’s stubborn and has a strong grip, and is damn-near immovable once he sees an attack coming. 

But Seto is stubborn too. 

And he refuses to let Atem’s thick presence between his thighs slow him down.

It involves eventually pushing Atem out of him--every war has casualties--but Seto manages to shove the man down and straddle him.

“Stay on for eight seconds, and you get a prize~.” Atem winks and reclaims Seto’s entrance, gripping him by the hips and guiding him down. 

Any witty remark Seto might have managed becomes lost data when his brain blue-screens, completely reset by the swift penetration.

It goes deeper this time, aided by gravity and the wide spread of Seto’s legs. 

Punches somewhere incredibly intimate.

Somewhere sensitive. 

Atem strikes his sweet spot hard enough to hurt, makes him hiccup and roll his eyes up into his head. Somewhere down below, Atem is still flashing that insufferable, toothy grin.

“ _ Intense,  _ isn’t it?”

When Seto regains the power of speech, he utters, “...It’s alright.”

Atem laughs roundly, and  _ god  _ Seto can feel it reverberating inside of him.

“Just say when,” Atem instructs, giving Seto time to reconcile the new and sizable shape of Atem’s cock in his body.

Seto doesn’t say a word. When his system comes back online, he begins to move on his own, testing his limits, exploring this uncharted sensation. He rotates his hips and chews out vulnerable little sounds at the way it makes their union shift. Lifts himself up along that solid shaft and braces himself with a deep breath before pushing back down.

Atem’s flesh glides into his, and Seto could laugh at how good this feels, at how  _ fun _ this is.

So he does. 

A surprised, effervescent chuckle that tickles his chest. He bites his lip to suppress it, but the breath still rushes gleefully from his lungs with every experimental pump. 

He doesn’t pay Atem too much mind during these first few adventurous strokes, focusing entirely on the labor of impaling himself, of pleasuring them both with slow, purposeful motions. Finding the muscles, finding the balance he needs to ride his lover properly.

He’s unsure of where to put his hands, lets them wander freely: fingers spreading over Atem’s chest, his stomach. Gripping his own thighs, reaching behind himself to grasp at Atem’s legs. 

Seto reaches up to brush his bangs away--the tousled remains of his gel-slicked hairstyle--and finds he rather likes holding his arms up over his head. The stretch feels wonderful in a body that spent the night doubled over a keyboard, and the way it presents him and exposes him for Atem to see sends a violent thrill through his nerves.

Atem’s expression is mostly neutral, but upon closer inspection, Seto can see the erotically-tormented wince of his eyes, the hungry teeth catching at his lip, the occasional swipe of a thirsty tongue. He’s laid his arms on the pillows behind him, hands clenching tensely as if barely held back from grasping something. 

From grasping Seto, perhaps. 

Could Atem be so overwhelmed by Seto’s actions? Could he be... _ enjoying the view?  _

What a startling and arousing thought.

He can  _ see  _ Atem’s eyes combing every inch of him, raking him down, drinking gluttonously from Seto’s body. 

And Seto finds he  _ loves  _ the attention. He flexes and preens beneath it, like bathing in the sunlight. He swirls his hips and tugs his own hair. Pants shamelessly, reacts as visibly as he can, lurching and rolling his entire body with every thrust. He moves a little faster as the tension eases, bounding more and more recklessly on his lover’s cock.

He’s not sure exactly when he started whimpering Atem’s name, or teasing his own chest with eager fingers. His only inspiration is to feel  _ good.  _

To feel  _ more.  _

“ _ Al’ama… _ Seto….”

Atem gives in to whatever restraint was binding his hands. Clamps onto Seto’s waist and pulls in time with his bouncing, jerking his hips to match, following Seto’s lead. 

They rock together like that for a good, long while, swimming circles in a pool of warm, intimate ecstasy, making the bed creak and snap against the wall.

It’s more physically taxing than Seto expected, but he drives himself onward, because he’s never seen a man half as entranced as Atem. The glazed glimmer of eyes poring over Seto’s gyrating body, parted lips constantly going dry, sweat rising in a heated sheen on his skin.

Atem pushes himself high and hard between Seto’s thighs, doubling the force of impact. “You’ll be the death of me, you beautiful thing.”

Surely he should be used to Atem’s generous, romantic compliments by now--but the words make Seto’s heart sizzle all the same.

“Does this... _ hah… _ feel good? ...For you…?”

“Seto, I could  _ live inside of you.” _

Seto’s entire body trembles with the force of Atem’s next thrust. 

Blushing with exertion. 

Breathing labored. 

“That...doesn’t sound so bad, actually,” Seto gasps, faltering, finally feeling his muscles give out on him. 

Atem manages a humming laugh. Offers Seto his hands. 

Fingers mesh together, and Atem slows them down to a lavish, waltzing rhythm. Lets Seto ride until he can barely lift himself up. Until he sits himself hard and still on Atem’s cock and wraps a sweaty palm around his own aching sex.

“That’s it, love,” Atem coos, “spoil yourself with me deep inside of you.”

He massages the length of Seto’s thighs, a soothing, present motion.

Seto takes comfort in it, feeling every cell of himself tightening with pleasure. 

“Can…. Can I-- _ hck!”  _ He swallows thickly and has to realign his thoughts. Works himself a bit faster, wiggles on the spot just to remind himself of Atem’s sex seated firmly between his legs. “Atem, can I...cum?  _ Ahh... _ please…?”

“Of course, love. I want you to feel good~.”

Seto hesitates. Another question lingering somewhere in his throat. A request he’s too flustered to voice. His hand stills self-consciously. 

Atem notices.

“What do you need, Seto?”

A long pause filled with Atem’s patient silence and loving hands that reach out to cradle Seto’s arms. 

“...Behind.”

“Hm?”

Seto drags in a deep breath. Averts his eyes. Clings to Atem’s hands for dear life.

“I want you to take me from behind.”

Atem’s first response is a tormented moan. 

“ _ God,  _ yes. Yes,  _ habiibii,  _ whatever you want. Come here~.”

It takes some shuffling around, but with gentle guidance and even gentler hands, Atem stations Seto at the edge of the bed. 

Face down.

One leg braced on the floor.

The other tucked up on the bed beneath him. Body splayed around Atem where he stands.

Seto flexes his fingers anxiously in the bedding, feels Atem spreading his cheeks and exposing him.

“Look at you,” Atem says reverently, palming Seto’s flesh. “So... _ open.” _

A thumb toys with his slickened rim. When Seto cranes his head over his shoulder, he can see Atem gazing down at his most intimate parts, as if admiring his handiwork.

Atem licks his lips, and it makes Seto shudder in his hands.

“Ah...Atem? What are you— _ hck!”  _

He loses his train of thought when Atem’s face disappears past his hip, and replaces that probing thumb with a swirling tongue.

Seto moans into the bed and curls his toes, disarmed by the sensation and  _ sound  _ of Atem devouring him. The man groans and hums into him, lapping greedily—audibly—at Seto’s trembling rim.

Atem’s tongue only pries into him a handful of times, focusing instead on the sensitive ring of muscle, tasting and teasing it with reverence.

“Atem...hah... _ shit….” _

Seto grinds himself backward, needily seeking the touch of Atem’s talented mouth. The onslaught makes Atem grunt, but he doesn’t back down. It seems to spur him on, lips and tongue driving deeper and harder. Wet. Writhing. 

_ Merciless _ .

Seto keens and gasps out how good it feels, invoking Atem’s name again and again.

He’s rewarded with a familiar hand climbing between his thighs and gripping his cock.

Seto’s jaw drops, saliva smearing on the sheets.

“Atem.  _ Atem!  _ I can’t wait... _ fuck, I can’t wait!  _ Please,  _ please  _ let me cum!” He twists to try and meet Atem’s eye, pleading even as his body continues to lurch under Atem’s touch. “F...Fuck me.” He stumbles over the explicit word, feeling coy despite all they’ve done together, despite the fact that he’s said it before. 

God, what is it about Atem that makes him feel so  _ weak?  _ Like he can’t function unless the man blesses his pleasure? Like he’s a virgin every time, shivering in wait for guidance.

“I need it….”

Atem is already moving. Withdrawing from Seto’s body and returning with a nearly-empty bottle. He uses the last of the clear, cool liquid to refresh Seto’s slickness.

Up to now, Seto’s been lying pretty flat against the bed, leisurely letting Atem indulge himself between his legs.

But he wants to be more present for this, more aware.

He pushes up onto his arms and dips his back in anticipation. Keeps his thighs spread wide and lets Atem adjust him by the hips, making him as accessible as possible.

And then that heavy cock, still flushed and swollen with arousal, is slowly sliding along his crease, tempting him with its heat.

Seto ruts impatiently and feels like he could  _ sob.  _ “I said  _ don’t tease.” _

Atem shushes him and strokes his back. 

“Here I come, love. Here….”

Atem enters him so easily, and it leaves both of them sighing euphorically at the reunion.

And Atem wastes no time in setting a rigorous pace, thrusting into Seto hard enough to make their skin slap—their thighs, their  _ jewels. _

Seto’s cock bounds wildly against his stomach until he stops it with his hand, resuming his fervid pumping, tripling the catastrophic pressure inside him.

“Yes,  _ yes,”  _ Atem goads. “ _ Good boy.” _

“ _ Ah~!” _

Under the praise, Seto pushes himself faster, squeezing tighter, rocking with the momentum of Atem’s every thrust. His shoulders cave, and he finds himself face-down in the bedding once more, hips raised high for Atem’s convenience. 

Atem’s nails are scratching into the skin of his waist, and at some point Seto drags his other leg up into the bed, opening himself wider, straining his hips. He ignores the sting of overtaxed muscles. Pleasures himself desperately while Atem animates that wet dream he had so many nights ago.

“Seto, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you like this.” Atem is growing short of breath as he gradually shoves Seto farther onto the bed, climbing up behind him and laying into him with renewed vigor, flattening him hard against the sheets. His hot, sweat-dampened chest presses into Seto’s back, ragged words finding his ear. “How many times I’ve gotten off to the thought of  _ dominating you.” _

“Oh,  _ god!” _

“That’s it, Seto,  _ that’s it.”  _

A feral nip at his ear.

That insatiable cock grinding against his sweet spot. 

His own hand working his weeping shaft, using techniques that Atem taught him, targeting delicious spots he didn’t know he had. 

Atem must be close. His breath is coming hard and tattered against Seto’s neck.

“Do you want me to cum inside,  _ habiibii?” _

The only reply Seto can manage is an unhinged moan. He nods rapidly into the sheets, lungs heaving as he nears his blinding climax.

He can’t even wait for Atem to follow through--

Everything implodes to a single, infinitely tightening point inside him.

Then  _ blows.  _

“ _ FUCK!” _

Seizing and shaking, mouth agape. Fingers curling and clawing deep into the sheets. Legs kicking out and shivering helplessly. 

He doesn’t see stars. 

He doesn’t see anything. 

But he  _ feels everything.  _

Every nerve in his body is white-hot and vibrating as one, raw energy chugging through his very blood and threatening to destroy him from inside. 

The sheets warmed by feverish skin beneath him. 

The weight of his lover practically crushing him from behind. 

A sharp pain in his shoulder helps bring him back. 

Atem is orgasming too--his body painfully rigid and teeth leaving passion marks in Seto’s skin.

His cock is still driven deep. Jewels emptying, as promised, between Seto’s pulsing walls.

Atem’s playful stunt with the lube is  _ nothing  _ compared to this. His release is thicker, warmer, heated within his body. 

It spills more gradually, more thoroughly. Painting Seto’s insides. 

And there’s more. 

A  _ lot more. _

“Atem,  _ holy fuck….”  _ He hiccups as his body overflows, semen seeping free and dripping down his inner thigh. “How is there so  _ much…?” _

“Hmm….” Atem doesn’t seem to have the energy leftover to speak, but he does manage to heft himself out of Seto’s body. 

Seto jumps at the tickle of something spurting out over his ass and lower back. 

“What--?”

He glances back to see Atem sitting on his haunches, massaging his massive, plum-flushed cock as it spits one final load across Seto’s skin. 

“Excuse you,” he hisses, but there’s hardly any bite to it. And in the privacy of his own head, he has to admit that it feels perversely  _ good,  _ being the five-star dessert under Atem’s drizzle of icing.

“I couldn’t resist.” Atem’s face is dazed with post-orgasm, but his smile is no less impish. He gives Seto’s leg a pat, then promptly collapses onto the bed beside him, panting and staring blearily at the ceiling.

He murmurs dreamily, “ _ Ya salaam….” _

Seto squirms onto his back, too exhausted to mind the mess smearing all over him and his bedding. “Agreed.”

Atem cocks his head. “You understood that?”

“Oh! Well….” Seto folds his hands over his stomach, fingers fidgeting. “I had a meeting with some potential investors the other day. Nothing interesting. The same entitled tripe as always.” He stares at the ceiling to avoid Atem’s attention, feeling his cheeks heat up under it. “Anyway, I was bored to death and I might have been researching Egyptian Arabic on my phone.”

“Really~? Now whyever would you want to do that~?”

A hard blush. “Shut up.”

“I’d be happy to teach you.”

Seto allows himself a small grin. “...I’d like that.”

Atem wriggles his way back up to the pillows, and Seto follows, the two of them collapsing into each other with tired sighs.

It’s hard to think with sleep growing heavier in his head, but Seto presses, “There are a couple of things we still need to discuss.”

Atem sprawls his naked self across the bed like a cat. Stretches. Yawns. 

“Now,  _ habiibii?  _ Really? Was my lovemaking not enough to satisfy you?”

“Don’t be so dramatic!” Seto turns away defensively. “I just...wanted to know what time you’re leaving. That’s all.”

“Leaving?”

“Tomorrow.” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but the fear slips out anyway. “This arrangement wasn’t supposed to last forever, was it?”

“Seto, what are you talking about?”

He doesn’t reply. Just rolls fully onto his side, turning his back on Atem and the reality he’s afraid of--that all good things, especially for him, must come to an end. That tonight was the climax of their time together, and that he’ll be left alone and hurting in the denouement. 

Atem’s hand slides gently over his cheek, brushing away hair, caressing his skin. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Seto bites his cheek. “...Of course not. But you have to go home, don’t you? Eventually?”

He hears Atem sigh, and to Seto’s surprise, tucks himself up at Seto’s back, snaking an arm around his chest and kissing the nape of his neck. 

“Home isn’t a place, _ habiibii _ ,” Atem murmurs. “It’s people. And these past couple of weeks...I’ve really enjoyed having you for a home.” He pauses to kiss Seto’s neck again, “I don’t want to leave.”

Seto’s heart pangs. “Then...you want to stay? Here? With me?”

The softest chuckle, a comforting squeeze of Atem’s arm around him. “Yes, if you’ll have me.”

Now Seto’s blinking back the heat in his eyes. He’s not brave enough to face Atem at the moment, but he does seek out Atem’s hand. 

He nods.

“Good~.”

A few minutes pass in silence before Seto decides to turn out the lights, having to stretch a little to reach the remote on his bedside table. 

By now, Atem is complaining about the cold, and the two of them fuss around in the dark to straighten out the bedding, climbing under it and returning to each other’s arms.

“So...you really are serious about this, aren’t you?” Seto murmurs. 

Atem nods against his chest, wild hair tickling his chin. “I am. Are you?”

“Yes. ...Which is why, well….” Seto bites his lip. Stills his soft tracing of Atem’s upper arm. “Atem, there’s something I should tell you. I should have told you a long time ago, but, to be honest, I was terrified. I just hope you can forgive me.”

He feels Atem’s weight shift, propped up on Seto’s chest, probably watching him through the darkness. 

“What is it?”

A deep breath. Seto shuts his eyes and blurts, “Atem, I heard you on the phone that day.”

“Huh?” He can easily picture Atem’s confusion, the endearing way he quirks his eyebrow. 

“The day we met. When I called to arrange a meeting. We stopped talking, and you...must have thought I hung up, but...I didn’t.” 

Seto’s cheeks are ablaze, and Atem isn’t saying anything, so he bowls onward against every instinct in his head, “And I know I should have--and I’m sorry. But I heard you, uh, doing... _ things.” _

Atem sounds like he’s on the verge of laughter, amusedly parroting, “Things? What kind of-- _ oh.” _

“...Yeah.”

He really does laugh this time, shaking against Seto’s chest. 

“I completely forgot about that,” he admits. “It’s hardly the only time I’ve gotten so riled up over you.”

“Wait, you were thinking about... _ me?” _

Atem hasn’t been shy about his attraction, or even his willingness to act on it physically; but Seto had no reason to suspect that on the other side of the line, Atem was masturbating to thoughts of  _ him.  _

“But--But we had just met  _ that day!” _

“Yes, and I found you unbearably sexy,” Atem purrs, resting his cheek on Seto’s chest. He taps his fingers playfully along Seto’s shoulder. “I might not have done it, but your voice on the phone really got to me~.”

“My voice?”

“Mhm~.” 

Seto doesn’t know what to do with that information. He just lies stock-still and lets Atem fiddle with his hair. 

“So, how much did you hear?”

“Ah...All of it?” Seto panics. “I-I know I shouldn’t have! I’m sorry. I never meant to--!”

“ _ Shh….”  _

Atem kisses him into submission and smiles against his cheek. 

“Did you touch yourself?”

“What?! No! Of course not….” 

_ But I wanted to. _

He can hear the smile persisting in Atem’s voice as he plants soft little kisses over Seto’s jaw, traveling down to his neck. “Oh~? So you just sat and listened to me? All the way through?” He suckles a light hickey into Seto’s collarbone. “Mr. Kaiba, how  _ perverted.” _

There isn’t a single hint of malice or hurt in Atem’s voice, and Seto finds himself melting sleepily under the attention to his neck. 

“You’re...not angry? Or grossed out?”

“Not even a little. I think it’s kind of hot, actually.”

“Really? But...but I was eavesdropping. Without your knowledge or consent, or anything!”

Atem hums and makes himself comfortable on Seto’s shoulder, sounding closer and closer to sleep with every word. “Mm…. That’s okay. I got off to the sound of you touching yourself in the shower the other day.”

“... _ WHAT?” _

One day, Seto hopes to have so many memories of Atem, and so many stories of their time together, that embarrassed moments like this get lost in the pile. 

Or perhaps one day, his memories will be made up entirely of those moments.

Perhaps nights like this will be so numerous and normal that he can’t imagine life without them. 

...That wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, breathing in the scent of Atem’s hair, reclining in the warmth of Atem’s naked skin, their limbs heaped easily together under soft sheets.

No….

That wouldn’t be bad at all.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Happens Backstage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200638) by [TheTransversalArtisan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTransversalArtisan/pseuds/TheTransversalArtisan)




End file.
